


Mimir’s Well

by Maiden_of_Asgard



Category: Loki - Fandom, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, Thor (Movies), Thor - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Asgard, Asgardian politics, BAMF Loki (Marvel), Captive/Captor, Drama & Romance, Eventual Smut, Evil Scheming, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, King Loki (Marvel), Leading to Ragnarok, Loki (Marvel) Feels, Loki (Marvel) Needs a Hug, Loki Posing as Odin, Mildly Dubious Consent, Post-Thor: The Dark World, Sibling Rivalry, Slow Burn, Tags Contain Spoilers, Warning: Loki, Ásgarðr | Asgard (realm)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-01
Updated: 2018-08-28
Packaged: 2019-01-27 18:17:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 27
Words: 101,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12587772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maiden_of_Asgard/pseuds/Maiden_of_Asgard
Summary: In the wake of Malekith’s attack on Asgard, a handmaiden with a dangerous secret captures the Allfather’s attention.





	1. Prologue: The Awaiting

Odin Allfather stared down from the great throne Hlidskjalf, frowning pensively. The object of his ire, a slight Asgardian maiden, allowed her nervous gaze to flicker once again towards the Einherjar standing at attention at the foot of the steps to the high throne. It was clear that the girl was fighting some sort of internal war regarding whether or not to approach, and the desire to know  _ why _ had begun to gnaw at him.

He had noticed the girl watching him with increasing agitation in the months since the Dark Elf attack, and had paid little attention to it in the beginning. It was a trying time for Asgard, and the Allfather had more to worry about than the concerns of a lone maiden. He had assumed originally that she had lost a loved one in the attacks, or even that she had some material possessions stolen or destroyed during the chaos. These were common enough complaints for the Allfather to receive.

However, as the weeks wore on, the girl never approached the throne during the time allotted for public audiences, nor at any other time, in fact. She would merely sneak glances, as if she believed that the Allfather wouldn’t notice such a thing. Frankly, he found it ridiculous. He’d wondered for a time if she was supposed to be some sort of morally-conflicted assassin, but if she was, she was quite terrible at her job. It must be that she was simply afraid of Odin’s reaction to her words, whatever they may be. 

Tonight, the girl hovered in the corner of the Great Hall, unenthusiastically chatting with a few of the Allmother’s former handmaidens. The Allfather had yet to decide whether to dismiss the Queen’s women or to assign them to different roles within the palace; the wound of her loss was still too fresh. The girl, he supposed, must have been a recent addition to her retinue. He didn’t really recognize her, but she was dressed well- a long, flowing lavender gown and heavy silver necklace, with honey-colored braids looping across her brow and flowing down her back in a wave.

Perhaps that was his answer- she was a young, new member of court, simply seeking guidance after the sudden loss of her mistress. Or perhaps she wished to offer her condolences to the Allfather, as so many others had. It never helped.

Sighing, he waved the nearest Einherji to his side.

“Do you know the name of the handmaiden speaking to the Lady Solveig?”

The Einherji peered across the hall, frowning. “I do not, my king. Shall I find out?”

The Allfather nodded. “Find out, and have her brought to my sitting room once the night’s festivities end. I have been informed that she has a grievous complaint that requires immediate attention,” he added quickly. It would not do for the Allfather to appear to engage in any questionable behavior, especially so soon after Frigga’s death.

“Yes, sire.” barked the Einherji, pounding his fist against his chest before returning to his station.

The Allfather bade goodnight to his court and retired to his chambers soon after, heart strangely racing. His senses were warning him that she was a danger to him, though he couldn’t imagine how. Gripping Gungnir tightly, he settled into a massive chair by his fireplace to await the girl’s arrival. Whatever the maid had to say, he was not entirely sure he was ready to hear it. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! Thanks for stopping by and checking out my first fanfic. I'm excited to start this little writing journey, and I hope you enjoy the ride!
> 
> \- MoA


	2. The Audience

Ragna felt someone watching her, and her eyes naturally darted towards Hlidskjalf and the foreboding king who sat upon it. The Allfather’s eye seemed to be gazing towards the table of elite warriors, but she could have sworn that he was aware of her nervous presence.

He _was_ the Allfather, after all.

She had been acting rather strangely, so it would not shock her if she had garnered some notice from the king or his attendants. In truth, she had something that she felt the Allfather must see, but she had yet to gain the courage to ask for a private audience. What she wanted to discuss was not a matter that could be addressed publicly in court. She feared Odin’s reaction; while he was a wise and well-loved ruler, his temper was legendary across the Nine Realms.

If only Queen Frigga could offer her advice now.

“Ragna!” another handmaiden chirped, jerking her from the beginnings of yet another mournful reverie. Lady Tove tugged on her sleeve. “That Einherji is staring at you.”

The ladies in her group all cast halfway-subtle glances towards the throne, where one of the Allfather’s own honor guard was now making his way down the steps. He was indeed fixed solely on Ragna. She blushed.

“Who is that, Ragna?” quipped Solveig. “An admirer, perhaps? He’s quite tall for you, I must say.”

The ladies tittered and Ragna’s embarrassment soared. “I know him not,” she muttered, twisting the chain she wore on her wrist.

Tove threw a comforting arm around her shoulders, rising to her defense as always. “Now Solveig, do not tease her so. You know she waits for a far-away love to return.”

Although she knew the other woman meant well, Ragna’s heart rate increased. She really did not wish to discuss this now, or at any other time. Fortunately (or was it unfortunately?) the other ladies decided to leave and give her and the mysterious soldier some privacy.

“I only meant to help,” Solveig giggled as she waltzed away. “At least give the poor man a chance, darling.”

Just like that, she was left alone with Tove and the ever approaching Einherji. “He hardly looks as if he intends to ask for a dance,” she muttered.

Her companion murmured her assent. “The Allfather’s elite pride themselves on looking grim at all times.” She noticed Ragna’s defeated expression. “Would you like for me to stay?”

Ragna shook her head. “No, I will be fine. You had best keep up with the rest or I am sure you will miss some very exciting gossip.” 

Her friend chuckled. “Right you are dear. We will be close if you need us.” With that, she gracefully swept away, and Ragna was alone. 

The Einherji stopped a few feet away and gave her a curt nod. “Bjarke, of the King’s Guard. We have yet to be introduced my lady…?”

“Ragna,” she quickly supplied.”Askrdóttir.”

“Lady Ragna, the Allfather has granted you a private audience this evening. I will fetch you when the time comes. Do not wander far.” With that, the Einherji spun on his heel and marched away.

A bead of sweat broke out on her brow, and Ragna forced herself to keep her eyes averted from Hlidskjalf, where she knew the king would be watching. It was a command, then. She should have known that her odd behavior would garner attention, especially from Asgard’s elite.

Plastering a false-feeling smile on her face, she rejoined the other ladies of the late Allmother’s retinue. She did not want to cause her friends to worry. And really, what was the worst that could happen? The Allfather was a wise man. Ragna tried to convince herself that he would listen to what she had to say.

\---------------------------

She had told Tove and the others that the looming Einherji had merely wished to make his introduction and ask for her name, and the ladies shared a laugh over the strange behavior of men. Ragna felt relived that they had accepted her small falsehood so easily, and allowed herself to be lulled into the calm of their gentle chatter.

All too quickly, the evening started to wind down, and the time for her audience with Odin Allfather drew near. In yet another stroke of luck, the other handmaidens decided to retire early. _Praise the Norns_ , she thought, before telling everyone she felt like taking a stroll in the gardens before she returned to her chambers. 

As soon as her companions disappeared, Bjarke’s stern face reappeared by her side. “Please follow me, my lady,” he commanded. Ragna wondered if he’d ever smiled. 

But she nodded and followed his lead, and soon they were winding their way through unfamiliar palace halls in silence. It felt as if she was being led to her the dungeons and her doom, even as their surroundings become more golden and gleaming. 

Finally, they reached the grand doors, heavy and ornate, that could only lead to Odin’s vast private chambers. The Einherjar standing guard at the door banged their great spears against the floor upon her arrival, and the doors slowly swung open. Taking a nervous breath and fidgeting with her bracelet, Ragna followed Bjarke into the room. 

She was overwhelmed by the vastness of the sitting room, with its massive fireplace and many ornaments, but even more intimidating was the god sitting in his armchair. He looked every bit as imposing as he did on his throne. She noticed that Odin had yet to remove his armor. Did that bode ill for her? 

“Lady Ragna Askrdóttir, sire,” announced the Einherji, bowing with a fist over his heart and backing out of the room. Ragna could have sworn she saw a flicker of recognition pass across the Allfather’s face at that, perhaps even surprise. She supposed that he might have some remembrance of her visits to the palace as a child, though she couldn’t imagine why he would have taken any notice of a person of as little importance as herself. 

The door slammed behind the guard, and Ragna found herself alone with the most powerful being in the Nine Realms. He did not look happy to see her.

“Come forward, child,” Odin’s voice broke out, and Ragna approached his seat and knelt.

“Allfather,” she said, bowing her head and pressing her hand to her chest. He did not tell her to rise, and in fact, he just stared down at the top of her head as if she was some great puzzle. The silence grew deafening.

“You have been desiring to seek an audience with me,” he finally said. It wasn’t a question. 

“Yes, Allfather.” 

“And now you have what you seek. Yet, you are afraid.” 

“Yes, Allfather.” Ragna tried to keep her voice from shaking. 

She could have sworn she heard him snort, and her brow furrowed. It seemed like a rather undignified response from the King of Asgard.

“Look at me, girl, and tell me what it is you so desperately wish for me to know.”

Looking up for the first time, Ragna found herself caught in the piercing stare of Odin’s eye. It was now or never, she supposed. 

“My king, I…” she took a deep breath, “I believe your son is still alive. Prince Loki, I mean, he’s alive. I know it.” _Oh no,_ she thought, _I’m babbling._ But she could not stop. “I have this charm, you see, with his seiðr, and it remains unbroken, and I believe that means-” 

But the Allfather raised his hand, and she fell silent. _Oh no_. His face was stormy. 

“Loki is gone,” he seethed. “Dead, in his one moment of redemption. How _dare_ you come before me with these baseless rumors, spreading lies and-” 

“ _Please_ , Allfather!” she cried, tucking the fact that she had just interrupted the King of Asgard away to worry about later. “I can explain! It isn’t a rumor, I’ve told no one.” He gaze suggested that he might have her head soon, so she quickly added, “Queen Frigga would have wanted me to tell you this.”

Odin slumped back in his seat, the fire knocked out of him. He closed his eye. “Tell me why you think Loki lives.” 

A flicker of hope burned in Ragna’s heart. “My king, you may not remember me, but my mother served Queen Frigga in her youth. She would sometimes bring me to play in the Allmother’s gardens when I was a child. I was… lonely, and unwelcome.” She took a deep breath to steel herself, and noticed that Odin’s eye was staring down at her once again. “The young prince, he was kind to me. He gave me this chain.” Ragna held out her wrist, the bracelet gleaming and twinkling in the firelight. 

“And what is the significance of this… trinket?” Odin demanded quietly, a faraway look in his eye. She feared that she was bringing back painful memories of his recently-lost queen.

“He told me that I was under the protection of Loki Odinson, Prince of Asgard,” she replied quietly. She could picture the dark prince now, young and mischievous, barely taller than herself. He had been so proud of his creation, so solemn in his vow of of protection. 

“It is a spell he created,” she continued. “He said, ‘As long as the silver link remains unbroken, you have nothing to fear, because you are in my care.’ So you see, Allfather, if the seiðr in this charm survives, so must Prince Loki.” 

Odin reached out to touch the chain, muttering, “It certainly sounds like something the naive fool would say.” Ragna was surprised at his words, but her attention quickly turned towards the chain, which had begun to give off a sort of humming feeling when the Allfather touched it. He must be checking for the signature of Loki’s magic, she assumed.

He sighed and leaned back again. “Have you considered, girl, that your Prince’s sorcery may simply be flawed? It seems far more likely that he gave you a chain charmed to be unbreakable. That sort of magic is simple, even for a child.” 

“Respectfully, Allfather, I know it is more than that. When Prince Loki… fell, the link tarnished, but did not break. I held on to hope then, and he was returned and the bracelet restored itself. And even since his battle on Svartalfheim, it is in _perfect_ condition now, you see?” She gestured, then yanked on the chain to show its sturdiness. “Whether you believe me or not, I am certain that he is alive.” 

She met the Allfather’s gaze, and he was clearly fuming at her impudence, his grip on Gungnir tight. “Now is a time to mourn and heal,” Odin declared. “It is not right to prolong our suffering chasing after the dead. Ragna Askrdóttir, you will leave this foolish quest behind.” 

“But, sire!” 

“ _Silence_! I will forgive your impetuous outbursts this once, for you are still young and foolish. But speak of your outlandish theories to anyone, and you will find yourself in the dungeons. Sedition is a deadly offence. Do you understand me?”

Ragna’s jaw clenched. “Yes, Allfather.”

“Good. You are dismissed.”

With that, Ragna bowed and fled the room. Bjarke did not speak a single word as he lead her back to her chamber, and she was immensely grateful. As soon as her door closed behind her, she burst into tears. She had expected his ire, but she had believed that she would be able to sway him with proof. Queen Frigga would have believed her. She would have listened.

Not bothering to summon a servant to help her out of her gown, Ragna flung herself down on her bed. She could still feel a warm buzz coming from the chain at her wrist, some remnant of Odin’s detection seiðr, no doubt. Her eyelids grew heavy, and she soon felt herself falling into a heavy slumber.

 

Loki was alive. She was certain of it, and she would find him.


	3. The Lost Prince

The doors slammed shut behind the retreating handmaiden, and the Allfather groaned in frustration. He  _ did _ remember her, now, and he recognized that blasted chain. It was Loki’s seiðr, there was no doubt about that. What he hadn’t expected was for it to recognize its master so easily. He hoped the girl hadn’t felt the spark when he touched it.

Rolling his neck, he allowed the mask to fall away and stretched his long limbs. Yes, Loki Laufeyson certainly missed the freedom of his own form. It was only here, in the most heavily warded chambers of the palace, that he felt truly safe from Heimdall’s gaze. With a flick of the wrist, Loki sent Gungnir to its place on the mantle and summoned a goblet of mead. 

He had to do something about the girl. 

Staring into the fire, the God of Lies thought back to the first time he had seen her. Ragna was the daughter of one Frigga’s ladies, some barely-noble lineage that dwelt far from the walled capital city. The girl had been pale and tiny for an Asgardian, even as a child, and he remembered that she had liked to wear trousers and sneak books from the palace library. Loki had thought that she was marvelously interesting.

He had spied on her once, and found her crying under one of Frigga’s hedges. Seeking his mother’s advice, he asked her why the girl seemed so sad. After all, she was staying in the most magnificent palace in the Nine Realms.

“Her family is just… different, Loki, that’s all,” his mother had told him, tucking his hair behind his ear. “Some of the other children make her feel as if she doesn’t belong. You are a Prince of Asgard and she is your subject. What shall you do?”

Loki had frowned at the thinly-veiled test, wanting to give the right answer, wanting to show that he had the wisdom of a king. “She is one of our people, so we must protect her,” he finally declared. 

The Allmother smiled at his solemn expression. “That we must,” she agreed. “You will be a just ruler someday, my son.”

Puffed up with pride and a sense of purpose, the young prince had rushed to the library. He knew a few protection and shielding spells, but those did not seem like the best choice. His object was to offer protection, like a king would offer a lord or lady sworn to his fealty. Loki flipped through a book about magical wards, but that seemed a bit severe. He decided to get creative. After all, his seiðr tutors always said that he had an innate knack for crafting new spells.

His masterpiece took two days to finish. The bracelet was small and dainty, made of fine gold chains. Loki had stolen it from one of Father’s treasure rooms. The links had been forged by the dwarves of Nidavellir, and it would lengthen or shorten to fit to its owner’s wrist. He had concocted a simple enough spell, tied to his own magic. There was one silver link, which would remain strong as long as Loki had his power. Now the girl would know that she always had someone strong, a  _ prince _ , on her side. Here he was, the height of princely chivalry, while Thor was off rolling around in the mud somewhere. 

Loki felt even more pride swell in his chest when he looped the chain around Ragna’s tiny wrist, seeing her blue eyes light up with admiration. He had  _ helped _ and she had  _ bowed _ to him. It was one of the most satisfying feelings in his life. He had never even told Frigga, although he was sure she would have approved; this was a special secret, his first kingly act, tucked away in his heart. 

Rousing himself from the sentimental childhood memory, Loki tossed the now-empty goblet into the fire, watching it burst in a flurry of green sparks. He groaned. A simple childhood mistake borne of foolish altruism and experimental magic had come back to haunt him.

Ragna was much changed since he had last seen her. She was still small for an Asgardian, but she was a woman now, all soft curves and gracefulness. When she had left to return to her family’s estate all those centuries ago, she was still thin and sharp-limbed, her hair always in a messy plait. 

Her eyes were still the same. He should have recognized those sooner. Bright and blue, brimming with a quiet sort of intelligence. As a child, Loki had thought them quite pretty.

He wondered if he should just kill her. It wouldn’t make him happy, not really,  but it was likely the easiest option. The last thing he needed now was for whisperings that Loki the Trickster was alive to start filtering through the realms. Or beyond. 

Shuddering at the thought of catching the notice of the Other so soon, Loki tried to think of an alternative. It was possible to spell her, but his seiðr was already stretched thin. He could have her locked away in the far corners of the dungeon, as he had threatened.  The other handmaidens seemed fond of her, though, so that would likely just lead to more irritating questions.

The reigning Allfather decided to give the matter more thought later, and rose to take a bath. If he was being honest with himself, Loki missed his old chambers. Being stuck here in Odin’s maze of rooms, alone with only his “true” form for company, made him feel rather desolate.

Undressing with the wave of a hand and slipping into the steaming pool, the god tried his best to clear his mind and simply  _ not think _ . Loki had always been burdened with an overactive mind, but the past decade or so had made it significantly worse. Especially after his unsatisfying escapade with the Mind Gem and the tortures he faced in the Void, Loki had found that he simply could not sleep. He couldn’t even stop thinking long enough to get a moment of peace.

Ragna’s frightened, rebellious face rose to the forefront of his mind unbidden. Perhaps if he figured out a solution to this newest problem, he would feel more in control, and could allow himself to relax slightly. He stepped out of the water and pulled on a tunic and breeches, uncaring of the water dripping down from his long, dark hair. 

Observation, he decided, was a crucial step before he made any permanent decisions. He went to his bedchamber and stretched out across the massive bed, closing his eyes and sending out tendrils of magic to hunt the girl down. As expected, she was near the Allmother’s chambers, where most of the other unmarried handmaidens resided.

Thanking the Norns that his duplicates were easier to cloak from prying eyes than his actual body, Loki sent a projection of himself into the girl’s chamber. It was incredibly small, especially in contrast to the sumptuousness and splendor of the Allfather’s rooms. The girl was asleep on her bed in a tangle of gown and covers. 

Loki stared at her. Who would have ever thought that little Ragna would give him such a headache? It had been decades at least since he had even thought of her. Clearly, he had weighed much more heavily on her mind. The God of Lies almost felt  _ flattered _ . 

There was not much to see in her small room- a wardrobe, mirror, desk, and small trunk. It really was sparse, even for someone of her standing. His searching eyes lit upon a pile of books and parchment on the desk, and he strolled over to investigate. The first one he picked up was a gilded account of the war between Svartalfheim and Asgard in the days of Bor, and Loki couldn’t help but laugh. He knew for a fact that it was from a restricted section of the palace library, and he wondered how she had gotten her hands on it.

The rest of the books were similarly obscure and dark. The Aether, stones of power, pocket dimensions and passages to Hel, even a rather ancient-looking text on binding seiðr. Well, the little one certainly was persistent, he had to give her that.

Setting the incriminating texts down, Loki moved to her bedside. Whatever she was dreaming of, it certainly wasn’t pleasant. He wondered if she was dreaming of him, then frowned. Pathetic, why should he even care?

He knew that the smart thing to do was to simply make her disappear before she posed any real threat to his rule. No doubt that was what Laufey would have done, or even Odin, or any other iron-fisted ruler with a grain of self-preservation. But Loki was not Laufey or Odin, and he felt a perverse need to understand  _ why _ the girl wanted so badly to believe that he still lived. 

Reacting to some impulse he didn’t quite understand, Loki stretched out a pale hand towards a messy strand of loose hair falling across the girl’s cheek. Before his fingers could make contact, her eyes opened wide.

He swore under his breath and quickly stepped back. Ragna had been staring right at him, but that was impossible. Loki allowed the projection to disappear and quickly returned to his body. He sat up, raking his fingers through his long, dark hair. His mind was playing tricks on him, that had to be it. By allowing himself to ponder over foolish memories, he had exposed a weakness, a flaw. 

A week, he decided, should be enough time to come up with a satisfying solution to the little Ragna problem. He would watch her closely, and when the week was out, he would decide her fate. Spreading himself back on his kingly bed, he banished the image of her eyes from his mind and tried to find solace in sleep.

He did not succeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which a backstory begins to appear...
> 
> In other news, I just got back from seeing Thor: Ragnarok, and it was amazing!! This chapter's a little early in celebration. Have you seen it yet? 
> 
> <3 MoA


	4. The Dream

Ragna had awoken suddenly, covered in a cold sweat. She would have _sworn_ that she had seen the lost prince’s emerald eyes glittering down at her, and she almost believed that she had _felt_ him there, looming in the darkness beside her. Maybe she was losing her mind.

She sat up and cupped her face in her hands, groaning. Now that she was awake, she knew she would not be able to fall back asleep. It looked to be the middle of the night still. Stumbling out of her bed, Ragna made her way to the small bathing chamber attached to her room and peered tiredly into the mirror. Her braids were wild and frizzy, and most of her bun had slipped out and joined the rest of her hair in a tangled mess. Dark circles ringed her eyes, making her look worryingly waif-like. She supposed that was the price she had to pay for her strange obsession with finding the lost Trickster God.

He loomed large in her dreams, always just out of reach. If she had truly believed him to be dead, Ragna would have had no doubt that she was being haunted by his vengeful spirit. Tonight had been more of the same. She had found herself surrounded by darkness, a crushing, empty sort of nothingness. The prince was there, far in the distance, and somehow she knew that he was in terrible danger. Ragna forced her way towards him, limbs numb and heavy. Usually in such dreams, she would find him chained to a throne, frozen and unresponsive.

This time was different. She had found the throne, but Prince Loki was nowhere to be seen. She realized for the first time that it was Hlidskjalf, charred and cracked. Had it always been so? She couldn’t remember. Ragna had felt dread then, heavy and palpable, creep through her veins. The god was not in danger here. She was.

She had turned to flee, and he was there. The expression on his face was foreign, cold; she had tried to back away, but found that she could not move. Eyes wide, she watched as he leaned forward, features in sharp relief from some unseen light source. Long fingers stretched towards her frozen form and gently stroked the delicate chain at her wrist. Green eyes blazed, and Ragna felt a strange buzzing sensation crowding at the edge of her senses.

Loki leaned forward, and she felt his breath brush against the shell of her ear. “When you find what you seek,” he hissed, “who will protect you from _me_?” Then everything went black, and Ragna was alone in the suffocating darkness, those calculating green eyes the last thing she saw before she awoke with a gasp.

It was a troubling dream, to be sure. Ranga wondered if it was the result of her own paranoid imagination, or if Odin was employing rather creative methods to dissuade her from her pursuit of his youngest son. She was far from an expert in seiðr, but she knew that it was well within the ability of the Allfather to influence dreams in such a way. Perhaps he thought that she would allow her fear of the darkness within the God of Lies to sway her from her path.

For it was true that Ragna feared Loki. She was no fool; she had seen the finely-controlled chaos within him even as a child at play. She did not fault him for it. It was his place, to be so raw and elemental. Without the tricks, the lies, the burning need for more, always _more_ , there would be no Loki. She had heard whisperings of how he had gone mad for power, how he had besieged Midgard with a savage army. It was easy enough for her to believe such stories.

However, Ragna knew that there was more to him than that. She had seen the loyal friend, the honorable prince in him as well. Her heart clung to the idea that Loki was capable of walking the fine line between madness and greatness, if only he was given the chance. She simply had to find him first, before he succumbed to the darkness.

Determined not to let the remaining hours of the night go to waste, Ragna decided that now was an opportune time to explore some of the less-accessible areas of the library. The palace library had always been her place of refuge; lost in a world of knowledge and myth, she felt invincible. Her mother once teased that she should be named the Goddess of Research, and to little Ragna, that was the best fate imaginable.

Now she turned to the library not for respite, but because she was in desperate need of answers. Could her dreams truly be touched by seiðr, or was the nightmare borne of exhaustion and an overactive imagination? Softly, she padded down the great hallway, circumventing a patrolling guard along the way. The same Einherji was always stationed along this stretch, and she had memorized his path by now.

Passing the library’s great gilded doors, she made her way further down the hall to a small, unlocked sitting room. She knew not why or how it had come to be, but she had learned in her childhood that the large framed mirror on the wall concealed a hidden door to the library. It had been Loki who had shown her, and Ragna wondered now if he had been the one to create the passage. It would have been impressive seiðr for someone so young.

She reached around the mirror’s elaborate gilt frame, tugging on a tiny lever. With barely a sound, the door opened, and she slipped into the darkness of the library, closing the door gently behind her. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust, and she fumbled around for a moment before finding and lighting the lamp that she always left in this section. How unsurprising, really, that Loki would have a hidden entrance to the library’s collection of texts related to dark magic.

Tonight, Ragna was unsure of where to look. Should she study dream interpretations, or should she instead investigate spells that could interfere with one’s mind? Sighing, she hefted the heavy lamp and made her way to the nearest shelf, peering at the titles. Perhaps Loki’s passageway always led her to this particular spot in the library for a reason. Peering at the titles, many of which were in strange, forgotten languages she could not decode, Ragna shuddered. While none of these texts were technically in the restricted section, she most certainly would have raised eyebrows if she had perused them during the daylight. _Mind Venoms and Other Psychic Poisons_ seemed like a promising title. She set down her light and pulled it from the shelf.

Three hours later, and Ragna had found nothing truly useful, although she was now convinced with absolute certainty that minds should not be meddled with; some of the spells described left her feeling sick. Defeated, she closed the massive tome and returned it to its place, then extinguished her lamp and slipped back through the hidden door. Bleary-eyed from lack of sleep and in a rush to return to her room without being seen, she did not notice the pair of eyes watching her from the shadows.


	5. The Invitation

Nearly a week had passed since he had allowed the handmaiden an audience with the Allfather, and Loki was no closer to deciding her fate. In fact, if anything, he was growing more perplexed by the day. The girl had to have some sort of ulterior motive, he was certain of it. He simply could not figure out what it might be. Recent discoveries had made him all the more on-edge.

He had shadowed her in the banquet hall unnoticed a few days prior, leaving his physical form in the shape of Odin seated upon Hlidskjalf with a bored expression. She made no mention of Loki to anyone, and truthfully, she did not speak much at all. At least if she was sharing her suspicions with any confidantes, she was being subtle about it. Loki had moved closer, noticing for the first time the dark, tired circles Ragna sported under her eyes. He wondered if she was as plagued by nightmares as he was.

It was then, hovering close by her side, that he had first noticed the faintest tinges of seiðr, just barely caressing her frame. Loki had been suddenly struck with the realization that the girl may be far more dangerous than he realized, for the magical signature was one he had never before encountered. Perhaps he had been right before, and she truly was an assassin. It had seemed a ludicrous notion at the time, but there was no doubt that the magic he sensed now, though barely-discernible, was dark, and powerful. It would also explain some of her more-questionable reading material.

Something was not right about the whole situation, and it left Loki deeply conflicted and irate. In the following days, her eyes haunted his dreams more and more, and the god became increasingly convinced that he was under the influence of some type of insidious enchantment. This was the only way he could think of the explain the fact that he had yet to eliminate such an obvious threat. With the allotted week nearly at its end, he decided that he must speak to the girl one last time before he made his judgment. Impatiently, he summoned Bjarke to his sitting room.

Barely waiting for the Einherji to finish his salute, the Allfather began to speak. “Lady Ragna Askrdóttir is to join me for luncheon today,” he said. Bjarke gave him a strange look, but Loki didn’t bother explaining further. The Allfather owed explanations to no one. “You know where to find her, I assume?”

“Yes, sire.”

“Very good. Be on your way.”

The Einherji nodded and left without another word. Loki had never been fond of the burly, silent types among Asgard’s warriors, thinking them dull, but he was starting to grow fond of the unquestioning loyalty of the Einherjar. It was one of the perks of being ruler of the Nine, he supposed.

 

* * *

 

Unable to truly concentrate on anything else and in no mood to sit on his throne and listen to petitions, the Allfather dithered about in his study, poring over arcane texts that he’d read a dozen times before. He grew increasingly moody the closer the time drew to his meeting with Ragna. How dare she feign interest in Loki’s wellbeing, to meddle with dark magic, to make him  _ feel _ something again? She was almost certainly plotting against him, he had nearly convinced himself of it. Hearing that the servants had finished setting up the meal, he walked to the small, ornate dining table that had been brought into the sitting room and settled in to wait. 

It was not long before the girl appeared at the doorway, looking apprehensive and confused. Loki wondered if she was afraid that he had discovered her true intentions, and gestured for her to approach, frowning. Her Einherjar escort did not bother to follow her into the chamber this time, merely waving her in and securely closing the door behind her. She timidly made her way to the table, dropping to her knee in salute. 

“Allfather,” she whispered, voice timid, and Loki felt his irritation increase at her innocent act.

He waved at the chair. “Sit,” he commanded. Ragna scrambled to her chair. It was jarring to see her act so awkward and ungraceful, and it brought back uncomfortable memories from his childhood. Loki banished such thoughts; he would not be so easily manipulated by sentiment. He decided to try for a stern, controlled approach, as he knew the real Odin would have done.

“Have you given any thought to my words, Lady Ragna?” he said finally, staring her down. “Have you abandoned your foolish quest to find my  _ deceased _ son?” He knew the answer already, of course, but was almost shocked at her reply.

“Yes,” she said softly, tired eyes brimming with something akin to defiance. 

Loki was enraged; the girl had dared to  _ lie _ , and to  _ him _ no less! What kind of a fool was she, to think she could evade the Allfather so easily? He choked back the biting retort that surely would have outed him as Loki, struggling to keep Odin’s composed mask in place. “Would you care to reconsider your answer, child?” 

“No,” she replied quickly. “Sire.” An uncomfortable pause followed as he studied her. 

“Eat,” he finally ground out. 

He watched as she lowered her eyes and picked at her food. She seemed highly unsettled. Good, because Loki was unsettled, too. Perhaps if he frightened her enough, filled her with a great sense of foreboding, she would let something slip. 

“Do you miss him?” she said suddenly, her soft voice cutting through the silence. She kept her eyes fixed on her plate. “Prince Loki, I mean.”

_ No _ , he wanted to say.  _ The old fool didn’t miss me. He never thought me worthy to be an Odinson. I was a war trophy, a possession _ . But Odin would never have admitted to such a thing. Odin would have acted the grieving, regretful father, so instead he said, “Of course he is missed. Loki was my son, no matter how misguided.”

“The Allmother said you were heartbroken, when he fell. That you visited Heimdall’s observatory every day, for weeks on end.”

Loki felt the mask begin to crack. He did not want to discuss Odin any further. He decided to be blunt, to finish this as quickly as possible. “Do you truly have such a great interest in Loki because of a single childish memory, centuries old?”

The god thought he saw a faint, rueful smile flicker across her lips, but she kept her eyes downcast. “Not a single memory, no. There are many that I cherish.” She glanced up at him. “I was there, you know, when Prince Loki first began to practice at hamramr. He took the form of a serpent, and Huginn and Muninn tried to peck at him. I remember Prince Thor had to chase them from the garden with a spade.” She laughed softly to herself, turning her gaze back to her plate. 

Loki frowned. Odin’s two great ravens had never cared for him, and he returned the sentiment wholeheartedly. He had felt their beady little eyes on him constantly since his usurpation, in what he could only assume was silent condemnation. “My sons were both foolhardy in their youth,” he replied gruffly, at a loss for what else to say. What was this meant to accomplish?

“I know that it may cause pain, sire. But there is power to be found in memories of the past, not weakness.”

“You would lecture your king in such a way, Ragna Askrdóttir?” How he loathed this, feeling so conflicted, so unsure. He could see it in his mind’s eye now- Thor wildly waving his spade, ever eager to be the hero, Loki beaming with pride as he shifted back into his own skin, the girl giggling with delight by his mother’s rosebushes, the other children running away in fear. A part of him truly hated her for making him remember such things.

“I would never dare to lecture you, Allfather.” There was a tremor in her voice, and had he been in a better mood, Loki may have been halfway-inclined to believe her. His head was beginning to pound most unpleasantly, and he felt dangerously close to dropping the act and simply shaking the answers he wanted out of the girl. 

He took a deep breath, gritting his teeth in frustration. The taste of seiðr around her was still weak and unfamiliar, and there was only so much he could do while in the guise of the Allfather. Perhaps it would be best to secret her away to investigate further, somewhere away from prying eyes. He could not make a move now, not with the Einherjar waiting just outside his door to escort her back to her chambers. “You are dismissed, Lady Ragna. There is nothing more that I wish to discuss with you, though I would caution you to remember your place.”

She seemed caught off-guard by the sudden dismissal, but eager to escape. Loki watched in stony silence as she hastily made her exit. He had discovered nothing to soothe his restless mind, and he knew, with a terrible, fatalistic certainty, that she would haunt his dreams again that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A slow chapter, featuring increasing suspicions and some memories that Loki would rather left forgotten.
> 
> The term hamramr, in old Norse sagas, denoted one who was able to skin-change and shapeshift. I'm treating it here as a specific branch of seiðr.


	6. The Library

When Ragna finally reached her own chamber, she sank down onto her bed and tried to wrap her mind around what had just transpired. She briefly entertained the notion that the Allfather was going a bit mad from grief, but quickly dismissed the idea. Despite his strange behavior in regards to her conviction that Prince Loki was alive, he seemed very much unchanged, aside from an understandable amount of melancholy. 

The king seemed determined to ensure her obedience, and she was surprised that she had been dismissed so easily; she did not believe for one moment that he had believed her assurances that she had let the matter go. She sighed, wondering if she should try to take an afternoon nap before meeting with the other ladies, who had been begging her to accompany them to the market. It felt as if it had been an eternity since she had truly slept. 

Deciding that such an attempt would be a waste of time, she instead made her way down to the kitchens, having barely touched any food while in the imposing presence of the Allfather. After begging a freshly-baked sweet roll from one of the kitchen boys, she found herself headed towards the main entrance to the library. Perhaps her weary mind simply needed a break from accounts of dark seiðr and blood-magic. 

In the daylight, the palace library was awash with a golden glow. Ragna preferred it like this, warm and inviting. One of the archival apprentices waved as she entered, and her face broke into a genuine smile as he approached. Hakon was something of a permanent fixture in the library, the only son of a wealthy noble family that lived not far from the capital city. He had excellent literary tastes, and had easily become one of Ragna’s favorite people in the palace.

“How surprised I am to see you here, my lady,” he said, tucking a dark curl behind his ear. 

“Well, I could hardly spend all of my days at the training grounds, now could I? I would risk becoming too powerful,” she replied, brandishing her half-eaten roll. He snorted, and the two made their way towards one of the windows, settling down in a couple of plush chairs. “Did you enjoy your time at the ancestral home?” she asked, enjoying the feeling of the sunlight’s warmth streaming through the windowpanes. 

“It was pleasant enough. I was happy to be home for mother’s birthday, but the parties are always so tedious. You should accompany me sometime, we have the most marvelous collection of books. You could read to your heart’s content, and I,” he spread his arms dramatically, “I would finally have a worthy dance partner.”

Ragna felt a faint blush spread across her cheeks. “My friend, I think that you have never seen me dance.”

“I have no doubt that you would be a quick study,” he said, waving dismissively. “On the subject of my family’s extensive library, I have a gift for you. This was the one you wanted, I hope?”

Her eyes lit up as he pulled the weathered old book from his satchel. “It is indeed. Many thanks, my lord. I promise to return it to you shortly.”

“Keep it for as long as you’d like,” he replied. “I doubt that anyone will miss an old text on enchanted metallurgy. I would question why you wished to read it, but I have come to understand how strange your interests can be.” From someone else, Ragna may have taken this as an insult, but his bright blue eyes showed only admiration.

“There is an emissary arriving soon from Nidavellir,” she said blithely. “I assumed that we handmaidens would be called upon to entertain our guests. They have many fascinating talents with metalwork, you know.” She launched into an enthusiastic description of dwarven silvercraft, grateful that Hakon wasn’t the type to pry. 

 

* * *

 

A few hours later, and Ragna had joined Solveig, Tove, and the other ladies on their way to the market. Everyone was in a boisterous mood, and she felt the most cheerful she had in days, the haunting memories of her dreams easily ignored.

“It is so exciting to get out of the palace, is it not?” Tove exclaimed, her fiery red hair flashing in the sunlight. “As unpleasant as visits from foreign dignitaries can be, I do love the preparations involved for the festivities.”

“The change of scenery is certainly welcome,” Ragna smiled. 

“We simply  _ had _ to get you outside!” Solveig exclaimed. “For fear that you might diminish into a pale shade, forever haunting the palace corridors as if they were the very vales of Niflheim itself.” 

A few of the other girls giggled, and Tove shot her a disapproving look. Ragna was unbothered by the jibe, for she knew that her behavior must seem strange to most of the queen’s retinue. She had not been a permanent resident of the palace for long, and she was still, in many ways, seen as an outsider, someone to be judged and carefully evaluated.

The party spent some time browsing through stalls selling brightly-colored ribbons and embroidered fabric, then perused craftsmen’s tables covered in gilt hair ornaments and brooches. Many of the ladies were from wealthy families and purchased anything that caught their fancy, darting from stall to stall with a sort of childish glee. Ragna had only the modest allowance provided by the royal house, so she spent most of the afternoon wandering around and helping the others make their decisions. 

Tove saw how she admired a pair of simple pearl earrings, imported from off-realm, and insisted that she buy them. “Delicate and beautiful, just like you,” she had said, “You must buy  _ something _ new for the banquet, dear.” She waved the merchant over. “My friend would like to purchase these.”

Ragna had acquiesced without much of a struggle, and the two made their way down a side street, purses much lighter. They stopped to admire the colorful burst of blooms at a flower seller's booth, and Ragna’s eye was immediately drawn to a miniature potted lily, so small that she could hold it in one hand. It reminded her of of the late Allmother’s gardens, and she blinked back a tear. Queen Frigga had always been so kind to her, and she could desperately use her advice now.

A few moments later, with the tiny flowerpot tucked securely in Ragna’s bag, the ladies headed to a nearby tavern for dinner. The light was beginning to dim, and as the evening chill set in, Ragna wished that she had worn a heavier cloak, feeling goosebumps break out across her skin. She sat close to the warmth of the hearth, feeling the day’s excitement dissipate as the shadows of the night drew in closer, suddenly aware of the tingling feeling coming from the chain around her wrist. The chatter of the tavern faded away, and she fidgeted with the bracelet, wondering how long it had taken her to notice the sensation.

Ragna felt suddenly uncomfortable, as if someone’s eyes were fixed on her. She glanced around, but saw nothing suspicious. Squeezing Tove’s arm, she suggested that they make their way back to the palace while the evening was still young. Eager to pore over their new purchases, the ladies agreed, and the group set off once again. Her sense of apprehension remained until they were safely inside the palace walls.


	7. The Garden

Loki had noticed over the past week that the handmaiden often slipped away during the morning to visit Frigga’s private garden, which had been well-kept but remained largely unused since her passing. It was there, he decided, that he would finally wring some answers out of the girl regarding her temeritous interest in Loki’s resurrection. 

His night had been, unsurprisingly, plagued with restlessness and nightmares, and his mood was tense. The longer that this  _ thing _ between them, whatever it was, dragged out, the shorter his temper became.  _ To be a king is my birthright _ , he told himself.  _ No one will take that from me.  _ When the sun finally began to rise, he made his way down to the garden and settled down onto a bench, slightly hidden behind a willow tree. Loki had always been masterful at prediction, and he was certain that she would make an appearance soon, before most of the palace was up and about.

He did not have to wait long. Ragna soon came walking the garden path wearing a light woolen cloak against the morning’s chill, something cradled gently in her hands. It was a white lily, he realized, watching as she carefully set the small flower down next to an arbor of roses. She knelt down in the grass, eyes closed, and Loki felt something in his chest tighten uncomfortably. The paranoia whispered to him,  reminding him that she was dangerous, that her naiveté and innocence were likely all for show. 

“You are out early this morning, Lady Ragna,” he said, voice booming out in the quiet of the early morning. The girl jumped in surprise, nearly tumbling over.

“I am deeply sorry for the intrusion, Allfather. The garden is usually empty at this hour; I merely wished to pay my respects.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes, sire.” 

The girl looked wan in the dawn light, and Loki could see how anxious she was to escape; he would not let her flee so easily this time. “Come closer, child,” he beckoned, voice low and assured. Ragna came near and knelt by the bench, doing her utmost to avoid the Allfather’s stern gaze. “You are hiding something from me,” he stated without preamble. “It is very unwise to do so.” She did not respond, keeping her eyes averted, and Loki felt his temper snap. “Look at me!” he barked, his outwardly-calm demeanor all but destroyed. 

“I swear, sire, there is nothing more than what I have already said,” she cried out, wide eyes full of fear.  _ Good _ , he thought,  _ fear is malleable. Fear, I can use. _

“This is your last chance to answer me truthfully, girl. Have you any proof that Loki lives? Any tangible evidence, other than that bauble on your wrist?” His glare could melt stone, and he could practically taste her distress. 

“Only that, Allfather, and the feeling that-”

“The  _ feeling _ ,” he cut in, relieved at the notion that the evidence of his survival was so flimsy. “Let us see, my lady, what truly inspires such  _ feelings _ .” Loki’s hand flew to the girl’s temple, flooding into her mind and her memories, hearing her gasp with shock. The remembrance of his gift to her was easy enough to find, as was the first hamramr incident. Filtering through more quickly now, he saw flashes of his mother, surrounded by the children of the nobility, and his own younger self sparring with Thor.

The memories were murky and filled with shadows, and he felt as if icy water was rushing into his lungs. His mother’s garden faded away, and he saw himself in chains. The flames of the Destroyer shot past him, and he was suddenly looking up at the distraught face of his brother as he fell from the Bifrost, the Mad Titan’s laughter ringing in his ears. The darkness pressed harder, and Loki choked, realizing that he was no longer experiencing the girl’s memories, but his own. His power flared in self-defence, and the darkness receded in an emerald flash.

He recoiled from the girl, dropping his hand from her forehead and panting for breath, staring at her with wide eyes. Ragna had turned deathly pale, pupils blown wide. “Allfather?” she said in a dazed voice, blinking rapidly. “... _ Prince Loki _ ?” She slumped to the ground, unconscious, and Loki panicked. He scooped the girl up in his arms, startled by how fragile she seemed, and hastily transported them both back to the Allfather’s chambers.

Standing still in the middle of the sitting room for a moment, Loki took a few deep breaths to steady himself. Expending any sort of power while in Odin’s form was incredibly draining, and he was honestly surprised to find that he still maintained the guise, as the girl had appeared to truly  _ see _ him before she fainted.

He let the illusion fall away; there was no point in wasting the energy to maintain it any longer, for he realized that he could not let her leave. She posed far too great a threat, and she now would know for certain that Loki Laufeyson was alive and at large in Asgard. Taking long strides to the fireside, he collapsed onto the settee, Ragna still cradled firmly against his chest. He peered down at her, wondering if he should simply let her die, for it seemed as though whatever trap her mind had held was not adequately prepared to withstand his seiðr. Her life force was flickering dangerously. 

Keeping her propped up in one arm, his other hand slid to her throat, feeling her faint pulse and shallow breathing. With his thumb, he gently lifted her lids and saw that her irises had nearly vanished, eyes black and lifeless. Loki swore in frustration. If he let her die, he would never find out who sent her. Such an enchantment could not have been crafted here in the palace, right under his nose; he was sure he would have noticed it. No, she had to be involved with someone outside, someone more skilled in seiðr. She had been intended as the weapon itself, a pretty little poisoned dagger meant to slip into his back. It was fortunate indeed that he had discovered her so quickly.

As furious as he was, some part of Loki could not ignore how helpless Ragna looked now, and the damned bracelet drew his gaze. Resigning himself, he closed his eyes and let his healing magic flow into her body. She was cold, even to him, and he pulled her closer, feeling her breath grow more steady. “What have you done?” he whispered, unsure if he was speaking to her, or to himself. 

He stood and carried her limp form to his bedchamber, settling her onto the massive bed. Covering her up with the heavy spread, he noted with some satisfaction that the color had begun to return to her lips. Once she was awake, he would do whatever it took to find out who was targeting him, and why. There was no reason to hold back any longer.

Returning to the sitting room, Loki snagged a bottle of wine from the side table, spreading his tall frame out on the couch. He would send word out that the Allfather was indisposed today, for he was in no state to deal with squabbling noblemen and demanding peasants, not with his little would-be murderess lying near death in his bed. When she awoke, he would be waiting.

He would not falter now.


	8. The Confrontation

Ragna awoke to a pounding headache, squinting blearily into the rays of sun that were pouring in through her window. Except, she did not have a large Eastern-facing window in her small bedchamber, and she stiffened as she realized that the room she was in was not her own. Pushing herself up into a seated position, she fought back a sudden wave of nausea. The bed she now found herself on was unnecessarily, obscenely large, and she seemed to have buried herself in a nest of covers at the very heart of it.

She crawled towards the edge, noting the craftsmanship of the dark, carved wood and the golden embroidered leaves crisscrossing the ocean of stormy blue fabric. The walls were a cheerful, clean cream-color, and the ceiling was painted with glittering silver stars against a golden background. It was a vaguely familiar pattern, and she squinted at it a moment before realizing that she had been reclining under a depiction of Yggdrasil itself, the World Tree’s branches spreading off towards each corner of the room.

As her feet hit the polished wooden floor, Ragna noted that she was still completely clothed from the day before, down to her slippers and cloak. She was unsure if that should comfort her or concern her more, for in addition to not knowing where she now was, the last thing she remembered of the previous day had been taking her little potted lily from the marketplace to place in Queen Frigga’s garden in remembrance.

Pressing her hands to her throbbing temples, she tried to remember more, but everything had been drowned out by nightmares of falling through endless space and eternally-burning fire. Except… she remembered the emerald eyes of the lost prince staring down at her, she had _felt_ him there, just out of reach. She had _seen_ him, she realized with sudden clarity, the cacophony inside her head reaching a crescendo.

Ragna fell to her knees, clutching her hair and desperately willing the pain to subside. Odin Allfather was Loki, and Loki had been watching her, had invaded her waking thoughts and her dreams, seeping in like a poison, warning her to stay away while luring her ever closer. What reason could he possibly have had to let her get so close, knowing that she was on the path to exposing his secret? She wondered what he had done to her, for he must have intercepted her in the garden or shortly thereafter, and why he had left her alive and alone in this room. _His_ room, as the sprawling, finely-decorated bedchamber could only belong to someone of great prestige. She was in the Allfather’s personal residence.

Standing carefully, trying not to aggravate her dizziness, she walked over to the window and looked out and the gleaming city, the Sea of Space stretching off into the distance. It looked to be around mid-morning, she noted with relief, assuming that this meant that she had only been unconscious for a few hours. The drop from the window was terrifying, and any fleeting thoughts she may have entertained of attempting an escape immediately vanished. _Besides_ , some part of her whispered, _you have only just found the one that you sought after for so long_.

Curiosity would be the death of her, Ragna decided, and slowly made her way to the large door, startled when it opened easily. Passing through an antechamber with doors on either side, she found herself facing a familiar scene once again - the Allfather’s vast sitting room, apparently empty. She braced herself and slowly stepped across the threshold, both terrified and eager for what she might find.

“Hello, Ragna,” his voice called to her from over by the hearth, and she froze as he materialized in the very chair she had seen Odin Allfather sit in just two days prior, a familiar arrogant smirk on his face. “Did you miss me?”

“Prince Loki,” she breathed, “you are alive,” and while she resisted the urge to fall into a faint, the blackness around her vision pressed in, causing her to sway dangerously. Had he caused her some irrevocable damage?

“Come here, girl,” he said, and he was frowning at her now. She wondered if whatever spell he had used was not having its intended effect. Maybe she was never meant to awaken at all. Ragna forced her shaking legs to move her forward, but the pounding in her head increased with every step, and she sank to her knees a few feet from the looming god.

“Closer, Lady Ragna,” he demanded, beckoning, impatience coloring his tone.

“I cannot,” she said weakly, flinching as he leaned forward in his seat.

“If you cannot stand,” he sneered, “then _crawl_.”

Flushing in embarrassment, Ragna complied. The prince stared down at her, jaw tight.

“You have much to answer for, girl,” he began. “But first, I must ask why you so foolishly decided to delve into dark seiðr, right under the very nose of the Allfather.” He leaned over and picked up a book from the side table, and Ragna felt her heart drop as she read its title. _Mind Venoms and Other Psychic Poisons_. The prince had been inside her chambers.

“How long have you been watching me?” she asked.

“Long enough,” he replied smoothly, opening the book and flipping through its pages. “Interestingly, that little memory trap of yours cannot be found in this text, nor in any other account in the palace library.”

“Memory trap?” Ragna exclaimed, becoming increasingly confused. “I have no ability to work seiðr at all, my lord. I never have.”

He snapped the book closed. “Then who,” he snarled, “were you working for?”

She was unprepared for the sudden explosion of temper, and she quailed. “I do not understand-” she began.

“Was your intended target Odin, or me?”

“ _Target_? My only desire was to find you alive.”

“Why?” he demanded, something frightening in his eyes.

“I have told you my reasons already!” she cried out, wincing as her dizziness peaked.

The prince regarded her for a moment as she knelt, holding her head in her hands. Seeming to end some internal debate, he reached forward, grabbing her wrist and yanking her close. “You attempted to attack the mind of the Allfather, Lady Ragna,” he said, voice low, “and you reek of dark magic. If you refuse to talk of your own volition,” the grip on her wrist became painfully tight, “then I shall _make_ you.”

“Please,” she begged, searching his eyes for something other than cold indifference or fury. “Loki, please, you must listen to me. We were friends as children.”

He laughed harshly at that. “Friends? I’ve stabbed my own brother more times than I can count and laid waste to his precious Midgard, I murdered Laufey, who sired me, and the Allfather and Allmother who so _benevolently_ raised me…” he gestured around the spacious chamber with his free hand, “where are they now? Your sentiments mean _nothing_ to me.”

“You did not kill Queen Frigga,” Ragna said, trying to twist away, fearing now that he would break her wrist in his rage.

“No?” he dropped her wrist, leaning back suddenly, as if eager to get away from her. “I did not save her. It is the same, in the end.”

They regarded each other for a moment, Ragna cradling her injured wrist. His eyes flickered down to it, and she thought she saw a hint of frustration, gone almost as soon as it appeared.

“Where is the Allfather, Prince Loki?” she finally said, breaking the uncomfortable silence. “What have you done to King Odin?”

He shrugged. “Odin is none of your concern, little girl, and I _am_ the Allfather now. You do not seem to understand, so allow me to be very explicit.” The god extended his hand, and Gungnir gleamed into existence. “The Nine Realms belong to me. _Everything_ belongs to me. Any power that Odin wielded, every citizen under his rule, is now _mine_ to command.”

“Then why do you not show your face?”

“People are so adverse to change,” he sighed dramatically, letting the Allfather’s staff dissipate with a wave. “They do not understand what is best for them. Fortunately for us all, I do.”

Ragna’s eyes fluttered closed, trying to fight the dizziness and the nausea as her head continued to pound. “What did you do to me in the garden, my lord?”

It appeared that she had managed to catch him off-guard, for the prince stared at her with wide, furious eyes. “What did I do to _you_? I merely attempted to check your memories, which was well within my right, and that poisoned mind of yours tried to ensnare me!”

She felt very close to panicking now, her heart racing. “My mind is _poisoned_?” she cried.

“Do not think that playing innocent will work with me, girl,” he bit back. “I have no reason at all to trust you, and you have become entwined with some very potent dark sorcery.”

She blinked back tears as the pain increased, and everything started to blur; if she hadn’t known better, she would have thought that she had seen something like concern flicker across his face.

He caught her by the jaw, tilting her head back so that he could peer into her eyes, his forehead creasing as he frowned. All she could see then were green eyes and darkness, and she felt deep laughter echoing around her. “Ragna?” the prince called, giving her a light shake, but could not respond. She heard him curse, and then she felt the ground give way to nothingness.

 


	9. The Stars Above

Things had not gone at all according to plan, and Loki Liesmith was in a very foul mood. He had been confident at first when the girl finally awoke and walked into the sitting room, sure that her obvious fear would make it easy to get the answers he wanted from her. It hadn't surprised him that she tried to act innocent of any wrongdoing; in truth, he had been expecting it. She had seemed so genuinely terrified at the notion that something was wreaking havoc in her mind, however, and that had given him pause. Either she was a tremendous liar, and that was still the explanation he was inclined to believe, or she had not been aware that the spell would have an effect on her.

He had been furiously angry when she had tried to turn it around on him, to blame him for her injury, for she had no one to blame but herself. And then… and then she had turned white, her pupils had started to dilate once again, and Loki had felt something abhorrent flicker to life inside of him for just a moment: concern. The clash of seiðr had weakened her more than Loki had realized, and he had tried to interrogate her too soon. If he damaged her mind too thoroughly now, he would not be able to pick it apart for the answers he needed.

In any case, that was what he told himself as he lifted her into his arms once again, carrying her back to his bed. Loki smoothed out the mussed covers with a wave, and settled the girl back down onto the bed, regarding her for a moment. Sighing, he sat down next to her and began to tug her slippers off, then reached to untangle her cloak. She had slept for just over two days when he had first brought her back from the garden, and it seemed that she was going to be staying for some time; he could not risk sending her to the dungeons in this condition.

After the first day, he had forged a note in her hand informing the other ladies that she had been called home for an unexpected visit. He had gone about the Allfather’s business as usual on the second day, unwilling to stay trapped inside his own chambers any longer while waiting for the handmaiden to awaken. The emissary from Nidavellir would be arriving in only a few days’ time, and Loki was unwilling to let the business of the kingdom fall to the wayside just because of this current threat to his throne.

He smoothed his hand over her forehead, sending healing seiðr into her, although he was not certain exactly what he should be targeting. The mind was much more difficult to repair than the body, and Loki had never attempted such a thing before. In fact, he was usually the one causing the damage in the first place.

“Are you going to kill me, Loki?” the girl whispered, eyes closed and unmoving.

Loki froze, palm still resting on her hair. He had not expected her to be conscious again so quickly. “I do not know,” he replied, surprised by his own honesty. Ragna did not reply. “You are safe for now,” he added. “Sleep.”

It seemed that she had complied, for her breathing grew deeper. He simply watched her for a few moments, puzzled and exhausted. When was the last time he had slept? He could not remember. Loki stretched out on the bed beside her, arms crossed behind his head. Yggdrasil stretched above him on the ceiling, and Loki traced the lines and spirals that connected the Nine Realms with his gaze as he tried to calm his mind. It was here, playing with his mother and father as a child, that he had first experienced the driving desire to see how it all _worked_ , to find the pathways between worlds. Eyes on the stars and listening to the steady breathing beside him, Loki slowly slipped into dreams.

 

* * *

 

When Loki awoke again, the light through his window was beginning to dim. As the fog of sleep began to clear, he stiffened, realizing that something warm was pressed against his side. He peered down, horrified to find Ragna’s golden head nestled firmly in the crook of his arm, her own arm loosely thrown across his chest. _Oh no_ , he thought. What had ever possessed him to lie down next to her?

The spelled bracelet glinted in the evening light, and he ran a finger across it, feeling the energy thrum at his touch, pondering how so much trouble had resulted from such a small, insignificant thing. Shifting slowly so as not to wake her, Loki carefully extricated himself, holding his breath as the girl curled onto her side with a soft sigh. It seemed that she was sleeping peacefully, and he realized with a start that he had no memory of the nightmares that usually haunted him.

Perhaps it had simply been from having another body near to him, for the last time Loki had felt an embrace was when Thor held him as he ‘died’ upon Svartalfheim. That must be it, he reassured himself, some lingering weakness to seek comfort in others that had yet to be snuffed out. He did not believe in allowing such vulnerabilities to endure.

But he had to see that she recovered now, this was a certainty borne of his need for answers, and as much as Loki despised the idea of playing nursemaid to the girl, he could not allow her to leave his side. He needed to get her to eat, he decided, and then perhaps he could figure out where to keep her until he was done with her, for it was clear now that he could not allow her to stay in his bed.

“Girl,” he said gruffly, shaking her shoulder. “Ragna.”

Her eyes blinked open blearily, then they cleared and she started to scramble away in a panic. Loki rolled over and caught her easily between his arms, confused by her sudden flight, for she had not tried to run from him earlier in the day. In fact, she had been surprisingly compliant.

“Where am I?” Ragna cried, blue eyes wide. She reached a tentative hand forward and touched his cheek, as if afraid that he might vanish at the contact. “Loki?”

Was it all an act, he wondered, meant to garner pity, to make him feel guilty for hurting her? “You are in the Allfather’s chambers, Lady Ragna,” he replied. She still looked terrified and lost, so he added, “Close your eyes. Try to remember.”

Her hands flew to cover her eyes as she squinted them shut, somehow making her look even more childlike and breakable. “You are the Allfather now,” she said after a few deep breaths, “and you believe that I attempted to harm you.”

“Yes,” he replied, voice stiff, noticing for the first time the faint bruise ringing her wrist, the visible result of his earlier ire.

Ragna moved her hands away, peering up at him once again. Loki usually loved staring down his prey, but she left him feeling strangely uncomfortable. “And you are not going to kill me.”

“Not yet,” he clarified.

“Ah.”

Loki leaned back and sat up, releasing her. “You should eat,” he said. “It has been over two days since you came here.”

“ _Two days_? Has my absence not been noted?”

He looked at her steadily. “You were suddenly called away to visit your ancestral home. It may be some time before you return.”

The girl paled, not missing the obvious implication. “May I bathe?” she asked, and Loki almost laughed at the forced nonchalance in her tone.

“You may,” he replied, “although I will be waiting outside the door. If you are a trained assassin, it would not be unreasonable for you to make an attempt on your own life, now that you have failed your task.”

“Do you truly think I look as though I may be an _assassin_ , my lord?” the girl asked incredulously.

“If you _looked_ like an assassin, how useful would you be? How could you possibly get so close to the Allfather? Really,” he continued, “a fair young maiden is the perfect weapon, for who would suspect her? Who would turn her away?”

She frowned at him, as if unconvinced. Loki didn’t care; he had evaded death enough times to know that caution and paranoia paid off in the end. A pretty face would not sway him so easily.

“You will do as you see fit, my king,” she said, not noticing how the title made him freeze. “But I will take a bath, all the same.”

Loki sat and watched her as she struggled free of the covers and crawled to the edge of the bed, before standing on obviously shaky legs. _Help her_ , some part of him whispered, while another part cried out that she was only trying to lure him in. Groaning to himself, Loki jumped off the bed and went around to stand beside her, holding out a hand. “Come along, then,” he said. “Your constant fainting grows tiresome.”

“Thank you, my lord,” she said primly, taking his hand. He led her to the antechamber and pushed open the door to the left, showing her inside.

“Clothes will appear on the vanity,” he said, “and if you are not out in a quarter of an hour, I will come in after you.” The girl blushed faintly, and a part of Loki wanted to tease her, to tell her that the only way she could bathe was if he accompanied her. He repressed the urge; he told himself that did not have time for such mischief, that he needed to focus on safeguarding his throne and his kingdom.

Closing the door firmly behind her, Loki stood outside and waited, listening for anything suspicious, the minutes seeming to crawl by. He momentarily debated whether or not he should visit her chambers for fresh clothes, but then a better idea occurred; truly, it could not hurt to allow himself the tiniest bit of mischief, could it?

Just as he was about to barge in and investigate, the door cracked open, Ragna peering through the gap. “Sire?” she said hesitantly. “This manner of dress is a bit… inappropriate.”

Loki smirked. “Making an attempt on the life of your king is also inappropriate, Lady Ragna,” he replied. “Now, come forward.”

The girl pushed the door open and stood stock-still, clearly embarrassed, as he examined her. His emerald-green tunic that he had decided on a whim to provide for her fell nearly to her knees, and she had rolled the sleeves up to her forearms. Her pale little legs were on full display, and Loki realized, as he tried to pull his eyes away, that he had never seen her so bare, for the dresses of Asgardian women were always long and flowing. Perhaps he was a bit of a masochist, to torture himself so.

“Is there a reason for this, your highness?” she ventured, gesturing down at herself helplessly.

“It amuses me,” he said with a wicked grin. When was the last time he had been able to be himself, to tease and to taunt, to act as Loki? It felt like an eternity since he had adopted the enduringly-stern visage of Odin Allfather. “And you are, in effect, a prisoner, my lady, accused of treason. Why should you be afforded the comforts of court life?”

Her plump lips thinned into a tight line, and Loki knew that she was trying to hold back a retort, for though she was frightened and incredibly vulnerable, she was still Ragna, and the Ragna of his childhood _always_ had something to say.

“Come,” he said, offering his arm, “let us eat.” She took it hesitantly, and he led her to one of the chairs in the sitting room, taking his seat across from her. With a snap of his fingers, a tray appeared on the table between them; it was a bit showy, to be sure, but he felt a tiny spark of childish pride at the way her eyes lit up. How was it that such rudimentary seiðr still impressed her, after all these centuries?

“Go on,” he prodded, picking up a large peach. “I will not allow you to starve yourself.”

She frowned at him, but picked up a pasty and took a large bite. They ate in silence for a moment or two, each sizing the other up. “What do you intend to do with me now, my lord?” Ragna asked finally. “I doubt that I can convince you of my innocence in this plot you speak of, and I know that you fear that I will reveal your secret if I am free.”

“You will remain here, for the foreseeable future,” he said. “The Nine Realms are currently in unprecedented danger from unseen forces, and I cannot risk instability now. If Odin was the target, then I can at least rest assured that you are the only other being who knows that I still live, and that the attack was merely political. _If_ , on the other hand, Loki Laufeyson was the target,” he turned and glanced out the window, as if expecting to find enemies lurking in the twilight, “then I have much more serious issues to contend with.”

“I will find out everything you know,” he added, turning back to her, “even if I have to pry into the deepest crevices of your mind for anything useful. Even if you are innocent, as you so vehemently claim, you were clearly chosen for a reason to carry the treacherous spell, which means that you can lead me to the one who crafted it.” He looked around the vast chamber. “There are worse places to be a prisoner,” he said. “You can take my word for that.”

He could almost feel the question she wanted to ask, the inevitable “ _and then what?_ ” Much to his relief, she did not voice it, for he was still unsure as to how he would respond.

“May I help you?” she asked, taking him by surprise. She gave him a wry look. “If you will recall, I happen to have a fondness for research.”

“You may,” he replied, “although you should not think that it will gain my favor, nor will it convince me of your innocence. Vanaheim and Alfheim may have texts that would be useful; I will send for them in the morning.”

“As you wish, Allfather,” she said, stretching with a small yawn. “Where shall I sleep, then, for the foreseeable future?”

Loki frowned at her, torn by indecision. “Go back to the bedchamber,” he said finally, thinking that he could at least keep her isolated and out of his way there. Ragna stood up carefully, allowing her hair to fall in her face to hide her blush. “Do not look so bashful, girl,” Loki laughed, unable to restrain himself, “it will not be the first night you’ve spent in my bed.”

She hurried away as quickly as she was able, and Loki forced himself not to turn and watch her as she breezed past him. He heard the door softly click closed behind her, and he sighed, wondering if he had made the right decision. Stretching himself out on the couch once again, he tried to get some rest, convincing himself that he should not follow after her.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown" - Henry IV, Part 2
> 
> Poor Loki; being the Allfather is proving to be far less entertaining than being the Trickster Prince.


	10. The Missing Handmaiden

Ragna awoke in the middle of the night from fitful sleep when she felt a dip in the massive mattress of the king’s bed, the covers rustling as someone slipped underneath. He kept his distance, and she tried to force her breathing to remain steady, terrified that he would realize that she had noticed his arrival, unsure of what he might do or say. Holding herself still, she listened as his breaths grew slow and deep, eventually lulling her back into unconsciousness.

 

* * *

 

When she awoke next, light was just beginning to filter through the tall windows. Something warm and solid was wrapped around her, and she wiggled backwards, eager to nestle into the bed to escape the morning chill. It took her still-sluggish mind a moment to process that the warmth, and indeed the arm that looped firmly around her waist, belonged to none other than Loki, currently Allfather, ruler of the Realm Eternal, and her jailer.

She stiffened, and a deep, sleepy sigh cut through her racing thoughts. “I know that you are awake,” he said, sounding regretful. His arm slid away and she felt a sharp pang of loss, rolling over to watch as he sat up. The god seemed determined to avoid her gaze. “I will be away all day attending to the Allfather’s duties. Food and books will be sent up for you.” He turned to look at her at last, face stern. “Do not leave this room until the servants have left for the morning. They will think it odd if I continue to bar them from their duties, but they will not linger for long, and they will not enter my bedchamber. If you attempt to draw their attention or seek their aid, you will regret it.”

Ragna nodded. “Who do they think they leave food for, then?” she asked, curiosity getting the better of her.

“The Allfather enjoys dining in his private study when he has a few moments of respite,” he said dismissively. “And he also hates being frequently interrupted. They will not think it strange to leave something out for later in the day.”

“Ah,” was all she said in acknowledgment, stifled by the awkward tension in the room.

“Consider this a test,” the king declared, standing and heading for the door. “You already know that I have means of watching you from a distance. If you are well-behaved, I might consider extending the boundaries of your prison.”

She perked up at that. “Really, sire?” she asked, already dreading the thought of spending the rest of her days in the (admittedly palatial) chambers.

“Really, pet,” he replied, his hand on the door. “So please, do behave yourself.” And then he was gone. The door shimmered, and Ragna wondered if he had spelled it to keep her trapped until the servants had come and gone for the day. There was no point in testing it. Curling up under the covers, she resigned herself to the long wait, burying her face in the pillows that still smelled like him.

She heart the servants bustling about in the sitting room around an hour later, and then everything was finally silent. Ragna hopped out of bed, feeling much recovered and eager to find something to occupy her mind. It was a bit chilly, so she padded over to the large wooden wardrobe, tugging a drawer open, half-expecting some alarm to sound or a trap to go off. Nothing happened, the wardrobe proving to be just an ordinary wardrobe, and she dug through several drawers before she found a pair of soft brown leather leggings. She tugged them on and belted them tight, cuffing the ankles several times so that she could move freely. _This will do_ , she thought, satisfied with her ingenuity.

Her hair was mussed and wild, and so she headed to the bathing room, quickly pulling it back into a tight braid. The dark circles under her eyes had faded somewhat, she noted with pleasure. Perhaps her dreams had been a side-effect of this ‘trap’ that Loki spoke of, and she would now be free of them. As she freshened up, she noticed that the bruise on her wrist from the god’s punishing grip had vanished overnight, and hoped that this was another sign that she was on the mend.

There was a roaring fire already lit in the hearth, crackling cheerily, and she settled into a cozy armchair, plucking a sweet bun off of the large tray on the side table. What did he mean, she wondered, that he would consider expanding her boundaries? Was it too much to hope that he would allow her to go outside again, or to visit her friends?

The rest of her breakfast devoured, Ragna moved to examine the pile of books on the table, many of which she had never seen before. Deciding that she may as well start from the beginning, she picked up the first text, a hefty account of memory spells written by some ancient Ljósálfar court mage. It was heavy reading, and the day flew by as she found herself enthralled by its accounts of unfamiliar, potently elemental seiðr.

 

* * *

 

Ragna was caught up in the tale of an elf maiden who had stolen a mortal’s memories of his true love out of jealousy when the Allfather shimmered into existence right inside the doorway. She jumped in surprise, accidentally closing the book with much more force than she’d intended. “You have returned,” she said uncertainly, placing it back on the table.

“I attended to the day’s tasks will all possible haste,” he replied, shifting seamlessly into Loki as he approached her. “And I did not wish to dine in the banquet hall tonight, not with everyone abuzz over the long-anticipated visit of the dwarven emissaries. They arrive tomorrow.”

He settled into the large chair he seemed to favor, looking irritated. “It would seem,” he said, “that you inspire quite a degree of loyalty in your friends.” He pulled two folded pieces of parchment from thin air, holding them out to her. “I intercepted these on their way to your family home in Ringsfjord,” he added. “Your absence has raised some questions.”

“How flattering it is to know, my lord, that you thought no one would be concerned by my sudden disappearance.”

His eyebrows lifted, surprised, no doubt, by her snark. “Do I detect _sarcasm_ , my lady?”

“Never, sire,” she answered primly, plucking the letters from his extended hand. He snorted, his expression caught somewhere between annoyance and amusement. One was from Hakon, the other clearly from Tove, though it was addressed ‘from all your dearest friends at court.’

“Insolent little chit,” he muttered, taking a handful of grapes from the tray. “Read them to me, and omit nothing.”

“ _My lady_ ,” she read, perusing the first, “ _The library dearly misses you in your absence, and it will not be the same until you are here again. I sincerely hope that you are able to return from your urgent business with haste, and that all is well. Remember, you still owe me a dance_.” She glanced up to find Loki glowering at her.

“Is that all?” he asked gruffly.

“Yes,” she replied, folding it carefully and setting it aside. “This one is from the other handmaidens. _Dearest Ragna, we are all concerned by your sudden leave, and hope that nothing unfortunate has befallen your family. No one seems to know the cause of your absence, nor when you shall return. Please write to us and let us know when you will be back amongst your friends here in the palace, and if there is any way we can be of assistance in the meantime_.” She sighed, placing it next to its fellow. “That is all,” she said.

The king closed his eyes, leaning back into his chair. “This is a complication,” he said. “I do not have the time to field off every letter sent to your family’s estate, nor have I the patience.”

“If I may, sire,” she said hesitantly, “I have a suggestion that might resolve the issue in the least painful way possible.”

“Speak,” he said, although his tone suggested that he was not open to anything she might say.

“Allow me to resume my position as a handmaiden, if only for one day,” she said, rushing when she saw him open his mouth to object, “and you can enchant me if you wish! I swear that I will make no mention of you, and I will give my friends some excuse for my absence that will prevent them from asking after me any longer.”

He tossed a grape into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully for a moment. “This _may_ be acceptable,” he finally admitted, though she saw how it pained him to do so. “Though your story will have to be convincing to merit such a scheme.”

“I will leave that to you, for you are the God of Lies,” Ragna said demurely.

Loki gave a surprised bark of laughter. “Flattery will get you nowhere, little girl.” Rubbing his eyes, he sighed. “Or perhaps it will. I will consider your counsel, but I make no promises. The alternative is to have you reply to these letters, after a believable amount of time has passed.”

“That seems very inefficient,” she offered, “and will require you to keep playing messenger.”

“I am well aware,” he glared. “And I reiterate that I make no promises as to what my decision will be."

“Yes, sire,” she acknowledged, but the hope of seeing her friends again still grew within her heart.

An apple flew into his hand, and Ragna watched wide-eyed as he tossed it from hand to hand. “So tell me, girl, what your day of study has revealed.”

“Very little,” she sighed, “although I have read some most interesting stories.” Loki took a bite out of the apple, regarding her with an expression she could not decipher. “Would you like for me to tell you one?” she offered. He nodded, taking another bite of the apple.

“ _Once upon a time,_ ” she began dramatically, and she thought she saw the corner of his mouth lift just a fraction, “there lived a beautiful young maiden among the Ljósálfar. She left Alfheim one day to wander about on Midgard, where she was attacked by ruffians. Before she even had time to react, a young mortal leapt from the path and fought the men, besting them and sending them on their way. The elf-maiden fell in love at first sight.” Loki rolled his eyes, and Ragna chuckled, leaning back into her chair. She supposed it was not his type of story.

“The mortal man brought her home to his palace, for indeed he was a prince among his people. He offered her many treasures and comforts, but not the thing she wanted most- his heart. He was in love, you see, with another mortal, a beautiful woman who loved him in return. The elf-maiden went mad with jealousy, for how could he prefer a mere mortal to one of the fair folk? She bewitched the girl and hid her away in a deep sleep, and she twisted and tainted all of the prince’s memories of his true love, filling his mind with thoughts of only herself.”

“But the prince did not relent,” she continued. “As painful as his memories became, he still thought to his true love. The elf-maiden eventually lost sight of her original aim, and unable to accept his inability to love her fully, she killed him.”

“A grim story,” the prince remarked.

“Yes,” she replied, “I am afraid it is. The elf-maiden returned to Alfheim and lived out the rest of her days in disgrace.”

“And what of the mortal girl?”

She peered at him under her lashes, surprised that he had even been listening. “It is said that she sleeps even now,” she said, “waiting for her love to find her once again.”

He snorted. “A good lesson to the point that sentiment accomplishes nothing.”

“I daresay the moral, if there is one, is that you cannot force someone to love you and hope for happy consequences,” she retorted. “In any case, the text presents it as a true account, so perhaps there is no intended moral.”

“Perhaps.”

She decided to try a different tack, as he now seemed lost in thought, staring into the fire. “Did you decide to expand my boundaries, then? I have been extremely well-behaved all day.”

“I do not think so,” he said, eyes sliding back to regard her. “For you are a thief, little one, and I do not take such crimes lightly.” _Was he teasing her?_ she thought, incredulous, for his eyes twinkled with mirth. She followed his gaze to where it rested on her now-covered legs.

“You cannot be serious, my king,” she cried, cheeks flushing in indignation. “The room had a chill and I was _woefully_ underdressed.”

“The judgment of the Allfather still stands,” he smirked, and if she had any doubts that he was laughing at her, they were gone now.

“Fine!” she exclaimed, and moving too quickly in her ire to stop herself, she stood and shucked the offending trousers off. The heat of her temper dissipated in a flash, leaving her cold as embarrassment flooded through her. She cringed as she looked into the king’s emerald eyes, now wide with shock.

“May I retire for the evening?” she muttered, fixing her gaze on the floor.

“Yes,” he rasped, and Ragna imagined that he was nearly choking with rage at her outburst. She gathered the crumpled leather from the floor and marched towards the bedchamber with as much dignity as she could muster, unaware of how intently he watched her until she crossed the threshold and was out of sight.


	11. The King's Benevolence

This was what he deserved, he supposed, for allowing himself a few moments to revel in being the God of Mischief. Although he knew Ragna had always had a tiny, but stubborn, streak of defiance, he never would have imagined that she would throw her clothing to the ground in front of her king. True, she was still just as clothed as when he had first left her that morning, but the impact that the action had on him was a little more profound than he would have expected.

Gritting his teeth, he picked up one of the books from the table, but his mind was troubled and he could not focus long enough to find anything useful. He took up the letters next, testing them once again for any traces of seiðr, but he detected nothing of note. The first one he unfolded to read over, curious to see if the girl had really included everything, and he was almost disappointed to find that she had. Loki scowled at the signature, ‘ _eternally yours_ ’ written with a flourish above it. So, it seemed little Ragna had a suitor.

 _Still_ , some small part of him whispered maliciously, _where is she now? In my bed._ The thought disturbed him, and he quickly pushed it aside, assuring himself that he did not care who favored the girl, that it only mattered because it would make it more complicated to explain away her disappearance. He crushed the note in his palm, watching with disinterest as it crackled into a bright green flame. It seemed increasingly likely that he would have to allow Ragna to make a public appearance, if only to quell the questions that now surrounded her.

The ball, he decided, would be the perfect opportunity. It would be easy enough for him to keep her under his watchful eye while she made her excuses to her friends, and if anyone in the palace had been part of the plot to attack the Allfather, they would surely try to make contact with the girl. He could use her as bait.

Loki wondered if he should go to her now, to tell her of his decision, for the ball was only a day away. He had promised himself that he would not follow after her tonight, but surely it did not count if he had actual business to discuss. He crossed the room before he had a chance to second-guess himself, pushing open the heavy door to his bedchamber. The bed was empty, and Loki stopped in his tracks, struck with a sudden sense of apprehension. “Ragna?” he called softly.

Then he spotted her, his relief immediate. She was curled up with one of his pillows on the windowseat, her head leaning against the glass. It seemed that she was already asleep, soft breaths creating a tiny spot of fog on the windowpane, her delicate features highlighted in the moonlight. 

He loomed over her, trying to decide if he should wake her or not. No, he reasoned, such excitement could wait until the morning, for he was nearly certain that his instructions would trigger an argument. Loki scooped her up, steadfastly ignoring the way she nuzzled into his chest, and deposited her under the covers, something cracking and twisting in his chest as he saw how comfortable, how at-ease she seemed in his bed. _Far too trusting_ , he thought.

After only a moment’s hesitation, he climbed in after her.

 

* * *

 

Waking up from a blissfully dreamless sleep once again, Loki opened his eyes to find that the girl’s face was mere inches from his own, her bright blue gaze studying him with something akin to fascination. He blinked slowly, preparing himself to rail at her for coming so near to him, before realizing that he was the culprit, his arms wrapped tightly around her tiny frame, pinning her to his chest. _Move_ , his inner voice berated him. _Let her go!_ But Loki ignored it, feeling surprisingly at-ease with this terrifying closeness. He was likely in a cheerful mood from being so well-rested, he reasoned. A few moments of peace would be an acceptable allowance.

The girl seemed embarrassed to have been caught staring, and afraid to speak, for she ducked her head in the only manner of escape she could manage, burying it against his neck. As he felt her breath tickle at the sensitive skin of his throat, Loki realized with sudden urgency that the voice in his head had been right; he needed to move away _at once_.

He released her from his iron grip and sat up, Ragna scooting back to sit beside him, a pillow clutched in her lap, looking incredibly bashful. _At least she has not attempted to kill me in my sleep,_ he thought ruefully. He could not allow this to keep happening.

“I have made my decision,” he began, eager to think about anything other than his troubling proclivity to hold her as he slept. “You will attend the banquet and ball tonight, at which time you will make a more definitive farewell to your friends.”

“What shall I tell them, sire?” she asked. “It has only been a few days since I vanished so suddenly, so I cannot possibly claim that I journeyed to Ringsfjord and back already.” 

“I know,” he said, running his fingers through his hair. “You were intercepted by a messenger along the road, the family crisis averted. Unwilling to miss your final palace banquet for the foreseeable future, you hurried back to the capital with all due speed. Obviously, you never received those letters.”

“And why,” she said, a touch of apprehension appearing in her voice, “am I to say that this is my final palace banquet?”

“You are being sent to Vanaheim,” Loki said, “for quite some time, I’m afraid. A remote estate where you will be attending to a distant relative of Frigga’s. Your position here is not well-established, so sending you into the service of another noble lady will not be entirely unexpected.”

“I see.”

Her complacency suddenly irked him, so he lashed out, adding, “After some time, of course, a tragic accident shall befall you, or perhaps you shall run away to Midgard and vanish, never to be seen again.”

The cruel taunt had clearly shaken her, but she remained quiet, eyes downcast.

“Do you understand, pet?” he pressed, wanting her to react, to explode, to do _something_.

“Yes, sire,” she replied. She looked forlorn, and Loki felt his temper suddenly fizzle out. 

Sighing, he decided to change gears. “You are not to leave these chambers until the festivities begin,” he said. “I cannot allow you to be alone to chatter with the other handmaidens, so you will have to arrive fashionably late. If your co-conspirators attempt to make contact with you, I will be waiting.”

Ragna stared at him, slightly aghast. “I have no _co-conspirators_ , Loki!” There was the fire again, and he was oddly thankful to see it return. In truth, he had begun to seriously doubt that the girl had any idea of the trap she had been carrying, but he could not tell her that, certain that she would use his doubts against him.

“So I am to be bait, then, to lure any attackers out of hiding,” she continued.

“That is the gist of the plan, yes. And I would like to remind you that you owe me your gratitude, for I am allowing you this liberty out of the kindness of my heart. Unless you would prefer to remain locked in here?”

Fingers digging into the pillow in her lap, she managed an unenthusiastic, “Thank you, my king.”

“Good girl,” he smiled, earning him a ladylike pout that was woefully ineffective, considering her current appearance, tousled and clad only in his shirt.

“Are you feeling much recovered?” he asked.

“For the most part,” she replied, rubbing her temples thoughtfully, “although I still feel a bit unsteady at times, especially if I move too quickly.”

“Come here.” He offered out a hand, and she took it carefully, scooting close to his side. The taint of dark seiðr no longer hovered around her, and so he felt relatively safe peering into her mind once again. Loki smoothed back her hair, pressing his hand to her forehead. “Close your eyes,” he said, “and remain calm. This should not be painful.”

It was like a shadowland, he noted, many of her memories grayed-out and faded, connecting links tattered and frayed. Truthfully, he was shocked that she did not appear to be more adversely affected. As he explored, he willed the ties to mend, the pale shades to become vibrant once again. He seemed to be helping, but he really should have taken her to see Eir or one of the other skilled healers, for he had no way of knowing if any of his hasty fixes would be lasting.

He pulled away from her mind, feeling her tremble, and realized with some dismay that Ragna was now crying silently, large tears tracking slowly down her cheeks. “It _was_ painful,” she whispered.

Loki was perplexed, unsure of how he should offer comfort to his prisoner, and more importantly, baffled that he _wanted_ to do so in the first place. He could not bring himself to offer an apology, so instead he pulled her into his lap, patting her head awkwardly. How was it that she seemed to throw him from his course so easily?

The shaking stilled after a few minutes, and she slid out of his lap. “Does it seem to be getting better?” she asked, and he could tell that she feared his answer.

“It does. I do not think that the damage will be lasting, although it is difficult to know with such uncommon seiðr.”

“Thank you,” Ragna said, placing a hand on his arm. “For healing me, I mean.”

Loki stared at the bracelet on her wrist, feeling a bit uncertain still. “Yes,” he said, clearing his throat. “Well, truly, I had no choice. You would have been no use to me dead or irreparably damaged.” _What has become of your Silvertongue, Liesmith?_ he asked himself.  

“No matter your intentions, I still find myself grateful for the result. Anything seems preferable to _dead or irreparably damaged_ ,” she dryly remarked.

Standing, he let her hand fall away. “I will be very busy during the day,” he said, “but I will return before the festivities begin. You should prepare yourself, rehearse your story. Any mistakes this evening shall be costly.”

“I understand.”

Relatively assured of her compliance and eager to escape, Loki strode out of the room and secured the door behind him, furious at himself for feeling the need to flee from his own bedchamber. He readied himself for the day quickly and donned the guise of the Allfather before heading to his throne room, already dreading the long wait until the banquet, certain that it would provide entertainment or answers; hopefully both.

 

* * *

  
The morning was nearly ended when the Allfather finally had a moment to breathe. The guests had been welcomed formally, final instructions had been given to the servants and guards, and he had even had the time to hold a short audience for peasants to air their grievances. His heart was not in it, and he called a brief recess. Ragna currently occupied his primary sanctuary, and he was unwilling to face her so soon, so he decided that it would be the perfect opportunity to do some investigating.

Loki slipped into his old study room next to the library, needing a private place to exchange his father’s face for that of some nameless, off-duty Einherji. It was sometimes easier, he had found, to take on an appearance that he had created himself; most beings were far too embarrassed by their perceived forgetfulness to admit that they had never seen him before. The gilt mirror was there, the same as it had always been, and he felt a pang of nostalgia as he pushed it aside and slipped into the library.

“ _The library dearly misses you in your absence_ ,” the letter had said, and he could easily see that being the case. Ragna seemed to have sought haven here almost as often as himself. Fingertips running along the spine of the books, he frowned, for he could feel almost-faded traces of the enchantment that had lurked in the girl’s mind. He could not find a source, so he assumed that it was merely a remnant of the time she had spent studying here, although he was surprised that it had managed to linger for so long.

By now, Loki was almost certain that little Ragna had not tried to intentionally poison him, but she still posed a tremendous danger, a risk on multiple fronts. Firstly, she knew that he lived, that he had done away with Odin, and that he now ruled the Nine Realms as the Allfather; even for this alone, he could not let her go free. Secondly, there was the more complicated matter of the plot on his life. Whoever had created the spell would undoubtedly try again, and the mage in question may also know that Loki now wore the crown. And, he feared, their plans to utilize the little handmaiden may be further-reaching than it seemed; what if there was another spell hidden away in her mind, something he was not yet able to detect?

 _And yet_ , he thought, shamed by his weakness, _you allow her to sleep beside you every night_.

He brushed the thought aside, determined to deal with it later. The name on the letter was one he recognized, _Hakon_ , one of the wealthy capital brats who had grown up constantly in and out of the palace. Loki thought he could remember sparring with him in his youth; the boy had never taken to fighting, and he was relatively certain he had ended up pursuing the life of a scholar, though he had never bothered to remember anything more than that. Clearly, based on his letter to the girl, the man spent quite a bit of time in the palace library.

Approaching the main desk, he beamed a charming smile at the librarian on duty, a slightly older-looking woman with raven hair. “Pardon me,” he said, “but my father has requested that I check into some old family records while I am on assignment in the capital. We have no grand libraries such as this in Nastrond, you see.”

“Of course,” she replied, returning his smile, “I am certain that one of the archival apprentices will be able to assist you. Please wait one moment.” She strode away, returning a few moments later with a curly-haired young man in tow. “This is Lord Hakon Jarlsson, our resident record-keeping prodigy,” she laughed. “My lord, this young man requires your assistance locating some family records. Is that not so, Sir…?”

“Einar,” he helpfully supplied, “Einar Fritjofson, from Nastrond. Only if it is no trouble, of course.”

“No trouble at all, I assure you,” the shorter man said pleasantly. “Indeed, it will break up the monotony of my current task, transcribing crumbling old Dökkálfar scrolls.”

Loki returned his friendly expression, though it felt brittle, and they headed for the section of the library where all of Asgard’s family records were kept.

“Have you been in the capital long, Sir Einar?”

“No,” Loki replied. “Only a week, in fact. I believe the Allfather wished to strengthen security due to recent events, especially with dignitaries visiting from other realms.”

“Hardly surprising. We shall all be thankful for a stronger military presence, especially with both of the princes now gone. It has been a dark time for Asgard.”

“Indeed. Of course, I have only heard secondhand accounts of the tragedy; word travels slowly to Nastrond.”

“I have never been to that region, but I have been told that the climate can be quite icy and treacherous.”

Loki laughed. “It is, but the cold has never bothered me.”

They reached their destination, and Hakon began pulling texts and scrolls off the shelves in a seemingly-random order, stacking them on a low table in the middle of the aisle. “Are you searching for something specific?” he asked.

“I believe it’s in regards to some squabble over property lines and taxes,” Loki lied smoothly, expending the tiniest hint of seiðr to add his invented family estate to one of the books at the bottom of the pile. “My father tells me very little of import, I’m afraid.”

“An enduring trait of all fathers, I believe,” the other man remarked. “At least if my own is any indication.”

“I must admit that I am surprised to see a lord of the realm serving as an apprentice in the library,” Loki said. “Though not unheard of, it seems very uncommon.”

“Yes,” the lord replied, pulling another hefty book off of a high shelf. “My father is not fond of my choice, as he was always more of the military type.” He smiled, and Loki was taken aback by just how friendly the man was, with a total stranger, no less. “My mother, on the other hand, is thrilled. The odds of me ending up speared by marauders on Vanaheim is greatly diminished.”

“Oh, I understand entirely. It is important to follow one’s calling, I believe.”

“Well said, Sir Einar.” He began to spread the books out on the table. “This should not take long.”

“You seem very at-home here,” Loki remarked, wondering how he could steer the conversation to the girl. “It does not grow lonely, with only dusty old scrolls for companionship?”

The man chuckled. “You would be surprised, my friend. Constant pursuit of knowledge leaves little room for loneliness. Besides,” he continued, “I have many visitors, such as yourself.”

“I see.” He decided to try a different tack. “I know my own mother would fret and moan that I would never find a suitable wife to ‘continue the family line,’ keeping myself hidden away so.” He rolled his eyes, certain the other man would identify with the overprotectiveness of mothers. It was shockingly easy to get the lord to talk, really, and it was reassuring to know that he had not lost his touch.

His attempt at solidarity paid off. “Oh, yes,” Hakon snorted. “I have heard similar complaints on more than one occasion. Fortunately, I think mine begins to realize that there are many beautiful, intelligent young women who do visit libraries on occasion.”

“Oh?” Loki replied, smiling thinly. “Perhaps I should develop an interest in reading, then. 

“ _Words are the way to a woman’s heart_ ,” the lord quoted, feigning dramatics as he clasped his hands to his chest.

“Who was that written by?”

“Me,” he grinned. “And I truly believe it. Ah,” he said, finger tracing down an open page. “ _Fritjof of Nastrond_. Here you are, sir.”

“You have my deepest gratitude, my lord.” Loki took the book with a nod, tucking it under his arm. He could not stand much more of the young man’s cheerful candor; it was almost as if he could picture Ragna sitting there, blue eyes bright and smiling, listening to the fool chatter, finding him perfectly charming and gentlemanly. _How tedious_ , he told himself.  

“It was my pleasure. Feel free to borrow it as long as necessary.”

Loki made to leave, feeling strangely more frustrated than when this little mission began. “Oh,” he said, stopping and turning back on a whim, “do you plan to attend the festivities tonight?” 

“I do,” the lord replied brightly. 

“I shall see you there, then.” And with that, the god strode out of the library, an ugly, irrational loathing of the curly-haired lord beginning to root deep within his heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter's the ball, y'all.


	12. The Ball

Sitting in the king’s large marble bathtub, Ragna tried to contain her nervous energy, for this evening might very well be the last time she ever left the Allfather’s chambers. Although… Loki had been surprisingly gentle thus far, and she was beginning to doubt that he actually wanted to kill her once the rest of the plot had been uncovered. Oh, she had no doubt that he would if he felt that it was necessary, for his ambition and self-interest conquered all, but it helped to think that his heart would not be in it.

And even so, even with her future seeming so grim, Ragna was glad that she had found him, glad to see that traces of the happier, more playful Loki she remembered were still _in there_ somewhere, as much as he fought to hide them. Queen Frigga had been right, after all.

She spent as much time as she could stand soaking in the bath, but she eventually grew too restless. Her hair would take some time, and she had no servants or friends to assist her, so she decided to start on that next. She managed a few haphazardly-placed braids before she became frustrated, so she abandoned the task with a huff and headed into the sitting room, clad once again in the king’s green tunic. The gown she had been wearing when she arrived had mysteriously vanished, and she feared that delving in his wardrobe again might cause him to rescind the offer for her to attend the night’s festivities.

Humming an old folk tune, she settled down in the cushioned chair she had begun to think of as hers, pleased to find that a pile of her favorite sweet buns were waiting on a tray on the table, the fire roaring merrily. _If I were not waiting for the ax to fall,_ she thought, _this would be a perfect morning._ And, she had woken up in the arms of Loki. Ragna blushed at the memory, terribly ashamed that he had caught her marvelling at his peacefully-sleeping face. For years, she had convinced herself that her fascination with the god was due to happy childhood memories and a stubborn desire to understand his drastic fall from grace. Now that he was _here_ , right in front of her, holding her… she was growing increasingly uncertain.

Books were her constant companions, and Ragna was determined to put a dent in the huge pile that remained on the table. Today, she chose the diary of a talented young sorcerer’s apprentice from Vanaheim. The handwriting was terrible, and she grew irritated quickly. Why even bother to record complex spells if no one else could read them? She decided that making a neat copy would be a worthy use of her time, and after digging through several drawers in the small desk by the door, she procured a pen and a bundle of parchment. They were hardly the best supplies for the job, she mused, wishing desperately that she could stroll down and visit the library freely again.

There was no point in dwelling on it, she decided, and she settled down to begin her work. Hours slipped by, and before she knew it, a tall figure appeared from nowhere, looming over her. Ragna glanced up, meeting his strange, intense gaze. “Hello, my king,” she said, feeling a bit uncertain. He did not appear to be in the best of moods.

“Are you ready to make your acting debut, my lady?” he asked a bit waspishly.

“My first and final performance, you mean?” Ragna said, tone perhaps a bit more cutting than she had intended, for Loki’s eyes narrowed. “I believe that I am as ready as I shall ever be. Am I to wear this, _sire_?” she added with feigned politeness, gesturing down to the tunic.

His lip twitched, and she knew then, with absolute, terrifying clarity, that he _would_ have made her wear it, if things had been different, if he did not have to pretend to be Odin Allfather, if he could rule freely on the whims of the Trickster Prince.

“Unfortunately,” he said, eyes trailing down to her bare legs, “I believe that would draw a slightly undesirable amount of attention.” Ragna felt heat rush through her, a product of righteous indignation, she was certain of it. “Your attire for the evening is waiting in the bedchamber. Go dress.”

The way he was staring unsettled her, and she felt her patience with imprisonment wearing drastically thin.  “Am I a child, that I cannot choose my own clothing for a significant palace event?” she cried out, cheeks turning pink. Perhaps she should have done something more soothing all day than transcribing terribly-written experimental notes, for her simmering frustration now seemed ready to explode.  

“You would be attending wearing that shirt and nothing but an illusion of a gown if my seiðr was not already stretched so thin, little girl.” There was something dark in his eyes as he smiled at her, and Ragna felt her stomach flutter. “Be grateful for life’s small comforts.”

It seemed that the serious, stern veneer of the Allfather was beginning to crack more and more, bits and pieces of the God of Mischief shining through with increasing intensity. How long, she wondered, until his true temperament could no longer be contained?

She stood up and marched toward the bedchamber, avoiding his gaze, feeling the heat of it burn into her back. Something must have happened, some reason to provoke his anger, for he seemed painfully on-edge. Perhaps he had learned something more about the plot against the throne, and had decided to take his frustrations out on her. It was not fair, and feeling a bit petulant still, she slammed the heavy door behind her.

 

* * *

 

When Ragna re-emerged a few moments later, she felt slightly mollified. Loki was Loki, she told herself, and it was foolish of her to expect anything predictable from him. Even though her prison was a pleasant-enough place, it would not do for her to forget that she was still a captive, caught in a very dangerous web. Her own feelings towards him changed nothing.

And the dress he had provided, though she hated to admit it, was lovely. It was a light blue, covered with spirals and whorls of silver embroidery. The sleeves were long and loose, an older fashion that she had not seen in quite some time. Where he had found it, and why he had gone to the effort, she could not imagine.

She slowly made her way back to the sitting room, uncertain of what to expect. The king’s irritation seemed to have faded somewhat, and his eyes trailed down her form in obvious approval. “It’s missing something, I believe,” he remarked, and Ragna felt that she might catch whiplash from his sudden changes in mood. “Here.”

Nestled in the palm of his hand were two small pearl earrings, the very same pair that she had purchased in the market with Tove less than a week ago. It felt like another lifetime, and Ragna felt emotion choke her. She took them with a shaking hand and put them on, keeping her gaze level with his chest.

Loki was watching her, a small hint of a frown appearing on his brow. “You do not like them?”

“No,” she said, “I like them very much. They just…” she paused, searching for words. “They remind me of the outside.” She gestured at the windows helplessly, and the king sighed.

He lifted a hand and trailed a finger along her neck, and Ragna shivered as she felt the thrum of seiðr, a weight appearing from nothingness. “You are ready now,” he said. “I will take you to your chambers. In an hour, your door will unlock and you are to make your way directly to the banquet hall. Stop for nothing. If you take too long, I will come searching, and I shall be very, very displeased, for shielding multiple long-distance illusions from the Gatekeeper is terribly taxing.”

“I understand,” Ragna replied.

“Good girl,” he said, taking her hand. “This may feel strange, but try to relax.”

She was about to question that, when suddenly it felt as if ice-cold water was crashing over her, dragging the air from her lungs. Her grip on Loki’s hand tightened, and right as she was beginning to panic, solid ground was under her feet once again. Ragna gasped, her free hand clutching at the fabric of his tunic for support as she tried to regain her balance.

Loki’s brow lifted, but he seemed more amused than displeased. “Are you quite alright?” he asked, a slight tone of mockery in his voice.

“Yes, sire,” she wheezed. “Perfectly all right.”

Chuckling, the final remnants of his temper seeming to fade, he disentangled her fingers from his shirtfront. “You will adapt soon enough,” he said. “It is the most convenient method of travel, especially when stealth is essential.”

“I am not so certain,” she muttered.

He gave her hand a squeeze, so faint she was almost certain she had imagined it. “Trust me.”

Ragna did not know what to say to that, and it seemed that he did not expect any reply, for he dropped her hand and stepped back. “One hour,” he reminded her. “And no more.” And then he vanished.

 

* * *

 

The allotted hour seemed to last much longer, and Ragna had taken to pacing anxiously around her small chamber, fretting. At least, she reassured herself, she seemed to be in the fickle king’s good graces for the time being. She went back to look in her mirror once again, smoothing her fingers along the necklace that now rested there, wondering if he had conjured it from somewhere, or crafted it on the spot. It was a lightweight silver collar, comprised of thin twisting links, scattered with pearls, one tiny, nearly-hidden loop of warm gold.

Why, Ragna thought, would he create such an obvious allusion to the bracelet and the memory he seemed to detest? She wondered if it would vanish at the end of the night, as if she were some princess in a Midgardian tale.

The time had finally come, and she opened her door and slipped into the hallway quietly, heading to the Great Hall at the quickest pace she could manage while still looking dignified. She was a queen’s handmaiden again tonight, after all, not some scantily-clad prisoner of the king. It would not do to forget her manners.

She felt strangely apprehensive as she strode through the golden hallways, and for a moment she thought that perhaps Loki had decided to keep his eyes on her after all, not trusting her to follow his orders. It was most likely just a case of nerves, she decided. That must be it. But the hairs on the back of her neck still stood on end until she reached the main hallways, where dozens of servants were rushing back and forth, bringing food and drink to the party.

Weaving her way through the hustle and the bustle, Ragna smiled in passing at the Einherjar guarding the entrance, finally entering the glowing warmth of the banquet hall. Twisting vines and golden leaves had been twined around the columns, fires blooming in a dozen different hearths situated along the Great Hall’s length. Long tables had been piled into the usually-cavernous space, people clustering in as tightly as possible. In the middle of the room, a wide space had been left open for dancing, though the floor was currently occupied with groups of chattering guests. Beyond that, elevated on a dias, sat the premier table, the Allfather watching over all from on-high. Ragna shot him a furtive glance as she walked further into the hall, but he did not seem to notice her. Perhaps it was for the best.

“Ragna!” came a cry from off to her right, and a flurry of colors enveloped her as Tove and the other handmaidens flew to her side. Even Solveig looked slightly relieved to see her again.

The redhead caught her in an enthusiastic embrace. “Oh, my friend, we were all so worried! Whatever made you rush away without so much as a word to anyone? 

“In truth, I have quite a lot to tell you all,” Ragna replied, casting another glance to the Allfather. He was still conversing with one of the dwarven lords at his table, but she hoped that he had at least noted her punctual arrival. “Let us sit and eat, for I have been travelling for several days, and I am terribly famished.” Her laugh was quite convincing, and the other women agreed, pulling her to their table, far from the king’s dias.

“So,” Solveig said once they were settled, her tone slightly less biting than usual, “do tell us all, Lady Ragna.”

She took a deep breath. _Norns be with me,_ she prayed. “I received word that my father had been injured in a hunting accident,” she said. “It was a hastily-written message, and it seemed quite severe. I’m afraid I rode off in the early morning in quite a state of panic. As it happened, when I was nearly two days’ ride into the journey, another messenger intercepted me along the road. Apparently, the injury was not significant, and Father was already on the mend.” Spreading her hands wide, she pretended to be embarrassed by her impulsiveness. “They urged me not to worry, and assured me that all was well,” she laughed, “and wrote that they hoped I was having a fine time at the palace.”

“You flighty thing!” gasped Hillevi, a tall, statuesque woman who had been part of the Allmother’s retinue for some time. “We thought that we may never see you again! It was as if you had vanished entirely." 

“Yes, well...” Ragna trailed off, riddled with anxiety, for she knew that the next part would be the most difficult. “I have more news. I have been given a new position,” she said, trying to sound positive, “on Vanaheim.”

“Oh, Ragna, no,” Tove cried, reaching across the table to clasp her hand. “Surely the Allfather-”

“I have spoken with him already,” she interrupted. “It will be fine, truly, and it is an excellent opportunity to learn more about the other realms. And it will not be forever, I am sure. Perhaps a few centuries, at the most.” 

“‘ _Learning about other realms_ ,’ indeed. We do have libraries here on Asgard,” Solveig snorted.

“The decision was not mine to make,” Ragna replied. “But I have accepted it. Unfortunately, the estate is very remote, nigh inaccessible, from what I’ve been told. It may be some time before you hear from me again.” The ladies were all giving each other worried looks, and she was desperate to lighten the mood. “Please,” she implored, doing her best to appear cheerful, “I rushed back to enjoy this evening with you, my friends. Let us celebrate while we may.”

“As you wish,” Tove said, but her smile did not reach her eyes.

They ate and gossipped, and as the evening wore on, the mood became much more jovial. _I will miss this,_ she thought. Before long, servants began clearing the tables, and musicians began to play. “Come,” Solveig said. “Let us go hover around the dance floor, for otherwise, how will the gentlemen know that we are to be asked to dance?” The rest of the ladies laughed, and followed her to the edge of the clearing, where couples were just beginning to venture out on the floor. A quick glance at the high table assured Ragna that the Allfather was still steadfastly ignoring her.

“Tove,” she said suddenly, “Have you seen Lord Hakon this evening?”

“The handsome, noble young librarian?” the girl replied, eyes twinkling with mischief. “I have not. But I am sure that he is here somewhere, likely seated at a better table than we lowly handmaidens. Whyever do you ask, dear?”

“It is nothing important,” she said, blushing slightly. “Only that I have a book I need to return.” Tove raised a skeptical eyebrow. “I do owe him a dance, as well,” Ragna admitted.

The other girl giggled. “That is why you are glowing so vibrantly tonight, is it? The jewelry, the gown… you wish to bring your own personal librarian along with you to Vanaheim!”

“I wish no such thing!” Ragna exclaimed, cheeks pink now from Tove’s teasing. “As a matter of fact, I-” An elbow dug into her side, cutting her off.

“Ragna,” Solveig hissed under her breath, “That Einherji is staring at you. And it is a different one than the last time.”

She turned to follow the lady’s gaze, and froze suddenly, coming face to face with Loki. Ragna blinked furiously, willing her vision to clear, for the Einherji in question both was and was not the spitting image of Loki, but the edges around him were strangely blurred. His ice-blue eyes met hers, and he gave her a devilish smile.  “My lady,” he purred, “may I have this dance?”

“You may,” she croaked, taking his extended hand and allowing him to pull her into the middle of the floor, wondering if this was some terrible side-effect of her poisoned mind. She squeezed her eyes shut as the man pulled her close, sliding his hand around her waist. 

The man chuckled, leaning down to whisper in her ear. “It is me, little one. Open your eyes.”

His voice was unmistakable, and she peered up at him, brow furrowed in confusion. The man’s hair was a curly gold, not that dissimilar from her own, and his sunny smile was surrounded by a fine smattering of stubble. “I think I am going mad,” she confessed.

Loki’s laugh rang out, and she tensed, terrified that someone else would notice that she was dancing with the Trickster God in the middle of the Great Hall, certain that soldiers would descend upon them at any moment. “It is jarring, I have no doubt. You are seeing an amalgamation; my true face, and what they see,” he nodded at the crowd, pulling her in closer for a spin.

“It is very unpleasant,” she replied.

“Is it?” he smirked. “Your friends do not seem to think so.”

“I do not mean your appearance,” Ragna hissed. “I am referring to the sensation of the seiðr. It feels as if I am about to go cross-eyed, seeing two people in the same place.”

The king did not seem to share her concern, and in fact, he seemed slightly piqued. “You will adjust,” he said. “I thought that you would prefer it this way, rather than being swept off into the unfamiliar arms of a stranger.”

Sighing, she relaxed, leaning further into his chest. “I am happy to see the true _you_ under there, my lord. The circumstances, on the other hand, are not ideal, and my mind is already fractured enough.” They took another turn, and Ragna glanced around, still half-expecting to see people pointing and gasping in a panic. “How are you doing this?”

“The Allfather is an illusion.” She looked to where the image of Odin sat, conversing with one of the High Lords at his table, then turned back to him with a skeptical expression. Loki grinned, “An _excellent_ illusion, I should say. I am the most talented sorcerer in the Nine Realms, after all.”

Frowning, she tried to wrap her mind around that. “So you are saying that you are currently carrying on a coherent conversation as Odin Allfather, while you dance with me, clad in the form of an Einherji?”

“Yes. And shielding it all from Heimdall, of course. That Allfather is barely tangible, however. It is fortunate that no one is foolish enough to ask Odin to dance.”

Ragna snorted. “Of course.” The song ended, but Loki held her close as the next began. “This cannot possibly be an efficient use of your time, or your powers,” she remarked.

“No,” he said, staring down at her with an odd expression, “but it is entertaining enough.” He lowered her into a dip, then pulled her near again. “I did tell you that I would be watching your every move, did I not?”

“You did,” she conceded. “Why did you give me the necklace, Lo-, my lord?”

“It suits you,” he said simply.

“Hmm. Were you watching me in the hallway earlier, by chance?”

Loki glanced down at her, brow furrowed. “No,” he replied, “I was not. Why do-“

“Lady Ragna!” a joyful voice cried out, cutting the king off mid-sentence, and then suddenly Lord Hakon was there, beaming at her. “I am grateful to see you safely returned.” He turned to the man holding her, for Loki’s arm remained firmly around her waist. “Sir Einar, I see you have found one of the beautiful, intelligent young maidens I spoke of earlier.”

Ragna looked to the king in confusion, noting with some concern the anger in his eyes. Could the lord see it, she wondered, or was it hidden behind the veil of Loki’s disguise?

“I have, indeed, my lord,” he replied, smiling tightly. “And I shall be hard-pressed to let her go.”

“Well, I shall not try to cut in on this dance, then,” Hakon laughed. “Save the next dance for me, my lady?”

“Of course,” Ragna smiled, feeling the king’s fingers tighten fractionally, digging into the small of her back. “I would be delighted.”

The lord bowed and retreated to the side of the dance floor. “‘ _Save the next dance for me_ ,’” Loki mocked, barely audible.

She searched his eyes, trying to distinguish the green behind the pale blue. “Do you have some quarrel with Lord Hakon?” she asked. “He is a very good man, and he has always been extremely kind to me.”

“A facade, no doubt,” the god remarked. “I do not trust him. No man is that friendly, especially when his woman is in the arms of another.”

Flushing from a potent mix of embarrassment and indignation, Ragna hissed, “I am not _his woman_.”

“No,” said Loki, a small smirk returning, “you are not.”

She stared at him, aghast. “Are you trying to make the lord _jealous_?” she cried. “What purpose could that possibly serve?”

“I am merely testing his temperament,” he replied smoothly. “Everyone is suspect, especially everyone connected to you.” Fuming, she tried to pull away, but his grip was unrelenting. “The dance has not ended yet,” he said. “And do not look so sullen. You said yourself that you were bait this evening.”

“Yes,” she sighed, “I did say that.” Tucking her head under his chin, she tried to relax and enjoy the rest of the song, the music beginning to wind down.

“You do look lovely tonight, my lady,” he said softly as the dance ended, then he bowed and quickly disappeared into the crowd. For a moment, she just stood there in the middle of the floor, stock-still, trying to decide if she had heard him correctly. He was determined to torment her, she decided. 

The lord reappeared at her side, taking her hand with a bow. “I knew I would get my dance eventually,” he teased.

“I will endeavor to keep off of your toes,” she smiled, relief flooding through her that Hakon, at least, was consistent. He was someone that could be counted on.

“Where did you go, Ragna?” he asked as the dance began, a slightly more upbeat number. “It was almost as if you fled the palace as soon as I had returned.”

“I am sorry. It is a long story, but the gist of it is that I rushed off in a panic due to a concerning letter from home, only to receive another, more reassuring message en-route.”

“That does not sound like you.”

“I _can_ be impulsive, you know.”

He laughed. “I suppose you can be. I implore you to leave a note next time, however.”

“Well,” Ragna said, feeling her anxiety reappear. “While we are on the subject, I have some rather important news.” He looked concerned, and she braced herself. “My friend, I have a new position at a remote country estate on Vanaheim. The Allfather seems to believe that it will be an ideal situation for me,” she continued, watching him carefully, “and I am to leave at once.”

Then, for the first time in her life, she saw something like anger flicker in the young lord’s bright blue eyes. “What?” he said, looking up towards where the Allfather sat. “You are not property, Ragna, you are a noble-born lady. The king cannot just ship you off to another realm on a whim!”

“I have accepted it,” she said softly, surprised and moved by his vehemence. “I do not think it will be forever, after all, and I have always wanted to go on an adventure.” She blinked, surprised to find herself close to tears.

Hakon frowned, pulling her into a reassuring embrace, the dance temporarily forgotten. “It will be alright,” he said. “If you do not wish to leave, I will speak to the Allfather myself.”

Ragna paled, imagining how that conversation would go. “No, my lord, although I cannot tell you how much your support means to me. I am lucky, indeed, to have found such a true friend.”

He sighed. “If you change your mind, know that the offer will always stand.”

“Thank you,” she said, smiling brightly at him. They resumed dancing, and she suddenly felt eyes boring into the back of her head.

“Our off-duty soldier friend appears to be waiting for another dance,” Hakon lightly remarked.

_What are you doing, Loki?_ Ragna screamed in her mind. “Is that so?” she said.

“It is. Sir Einar Fritjofson seems quite taken with you,” he said, winking. “And really, who could blame him?”

Laughing, she thanked the Norns that the lord seemed willing to put the unfortunate news of her imminent departure aside for the evening. She just wanted to revel in the normalcy of it all. “Perhaps I stepped on his feet one too many times, and now he awaits his revenge.”

“You are being ridiculous, my lady, for I find you to be a most graceful dancer.”

They stayed together for three more dances after the first one had ended, and Ragna began to grow weary, though she was determined to stay out as long as the king would allow. She could feel him, intermittently, watching her from the sidelines, and he eventually took a turn dancing with one of the other handmaidens. _Either he suspects that I will tell his secret,_ she thought, _or he anticipates an attack._ Neither option was very reassuring.  

“Let us sit,” Hakon finally suggested, “and get something to drink.” Ragna nodded gratefully and followed him to a table by one of the hearths, collapsing into her seat as gracefully as she was able. The lord waved at a passing servant, and a cup was placed in her hand.

“Thank you,” she said, sighing with relief as she wiggled her aching toes.

“That was my last one,” the servant said, looking a bit flustered, “but I will send another over for you, my lord.”

“It is no trouble,” Hakon replied, but the servant hurried away.

“So, my lord,” she began, when suddenly long fingers wrapped around her hand, stopping the goblet halfway to her lips. Loki was there, a painfully forced smile stretched thin across his sharp features.

“Excuse me, my lady,” he said, “but I was wondering if I might have one last dance for the evening, before I return to my post.”

“Oh. Well, yes, of course,” Ragna replied, taken aback. “Please excuse me, my lord,” she said as the king plucked the goblet from her hand and pulled her to her feet, dragging her back across the ballroom, Hakon’s worried expression disappearing behind the crowd.

Loki did not stop until they had crossed the entirety of the Great Hall, ducking through a curtain onto a secluded balcony, one hand wrapped firmly around hers and the goblet in the other. She could practically feel fury radiating from him, and so she dared not say a word.

He stopped once they were outside and out of sight, turning towards her, his face frighteningly pale. Was his illusion fading, or was she simply seeing him more clearly now? “Poison,” he spat, green eyes blazing with a barely-contained rage.

The blood drained from her face, and she felt herself grow faint. “What?” she questioned weakly.

_“This_ ,” he seethed, brandishing the goblet, “is a poison. And not like the subtle one you carried around in your mind, girl. This would have melted through you from the inside out, likely in minutes.”

“I- I do not understand,” Ragna whispered, her heart pounding so loudly that it nearly drowned out everything else.

“Understand,” he snapped, “that you are a foolish _child_ , happily trusting anyone who so much as looks at you. I _warned_ you,” he continued, “that the conspirators might try something tonight.” The goblet vanished with a twist of his wrist, no doubt hidden away for further study.

“ _You_ ,” she cried out, adrenaline lending her strength, “you said that I _am_ a conspirator! And you knowingly used me as bait!”

“And it worked,” Loki hissed, suddenly seeming much taller, much more frightening. “I am taking you back to my chambers, _now_.” He pulled her close before she had a chance to object, and Ragna felt the crushing, icy rush of teleportation sweep over her once again, no less unsettling than the first time.

She fell to her knees in front of him in the Allfather’s sitting room, dizzy and gasping for breath. The last vestiges of Sir Einar had vanished, leaving behind the familiar, terrifying countenance of the God of Lies. As he glowered down at her, she saw something warring with the anger in his eyes. He looked up at the ceiling, taking a long, deep, breath, releasing it with a sigh.

The king extended his hand, and Ragna took it tentatively, allowing him to pull her to her feet and lead her to her armchair. She was trembling as she sat, and he frowned at her, running his thumb over her knuckles. “You did well,” he said finally. “But it was a mistake. You will not leave here again.”

And then he turned and walked purposefully towards the door, shimmering out of existence as he went. Confused and frightened, Ragna dropped her head into her hands and sobbed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, Loki. Can you say emotional displacement?
> 
> This beast of a chapter was my favorite to write so far. Lots of dialogue, some plot development, and Loki being a fickle jerk. (Plus the classic disguised-Loki-looks-like-Tom-Hiddleston trope. I just binge-watched The Night Manager, and I couldn’t resist; he’s a beautiful man). I hope you enjoyed it!


	13. The Mercy of a God

When Loki re-emerged from the balcony a few moments later, he was wearing the girl’s form, struggling a bit to adjust to her small stature. _So_ , he thought, _this is what the world looks like to Ragna_. It only reminded him of how tiny and vulnerable she was, and his barely-contained temper flared.

She was tiny, and vulnerable, and _his_ , and she had nearly gotten killed. _No_ , he told himself, horrified, _not mine_. But she was his prisoner, and his responsibility. If anyone did _anything_ to Ragna, it should be him.

He had been angry with her, before the ball, for it was her fault that he was spending his free time skulking about in the library, her fault that he was forced to roam outside of his chambers when all he wanted was a momentary escape from being the Allfather. Her fault, in fact, that he was in this whole mess in the first place.

It was her fault that he could not stop thinking about her.

And then she had emerged from their bedchamber, dressed like a princess in one of Frigga’s old gowns, looking to him for approval, and his temper was, surprisingly, somewhat soothed. He could almost forget that she was his prisoner, and that tonight he would be using her in an attempt to lure in would-be assassins.

The illusion of the Allfather and his Einherji creation, Sir Einar, had been established from the very beginning of the evening. Keeping his seiðr hidden from Heimdall was no small feat, but Loki was almost excited for the challenge; he had not expended so much power in months, and he was thrumming with anxious anticipation. And, though it was exhausting, he was more well-rested than he had been in years; it was high time he craft some truly complex deception.

Watching her from across the room, he had to hold himself back when the women swarmed to her, half-expecting her to fall into a panic and reveal him. But, she did not, and he looked on with glittering eyes as she lied through her teeth most skillfully. She glanced up at the Allfather’s dias often, no doubt worried that he would not approve of her performance, and so he waited longer to make his appearance, immensely enjoying her nervous anticipation.

When her party of handmaidens stepped towards the dance floor, Loki knew that it was time to make his move, certain that another man would snatch her up quickly. He had noticed her looking around towards the other tables, and he had no doubt that she was searching for the short librarian lord. Determined to have the first dance, he had made his appearance then, laughing inside at the way the women all blushed and at Ragna’s wide-eyed shock. He was, admittedly, a bit vain, and he wanted her to _see_ that she was dancing with him.

Of course, eventually, he had to let her go; that was the plan, after all. How could anyone else approach her if he kept her for himself all night? But he had hovered close, watching with consternation as the young lord pulled her a tight embrace. He was about to step out of the crowd when they resumed dancing, and he forced himself to relax.

It was then, standing just off the sidelines of the dance floor, that Loki had noticed an anxious-looking servingman, holding an empty tray in one hand, a goblet in the other. The god was slowly making his way closer, so focused on keeping the man in his line of sight that he nearly missed Ragna and her admirer leaving to take a seat by the hearth.

The servant suddenly hefted his tray and placed the goblet on it, making a beeline for the seated couple. Loki’s eyes widened, his understanding instant. He shoved his way through the crowd, grabbing her hand not a second too soon, struggling to keep the facade in place. From this distance, he could faintly smell it, a potent herb that he had used before in his own sorcery; a toxin.

He had been close to the breaking point, then, furious enough to blow apart the entire hall in his rage, for she had nearly been murdered right under his very nose. Yanking her from her seat and her lord, he had thought only of taking her far, far, away, and never letting her out of his sight again.

It was clear that he had frightened her, and he did feel slightly regretful, but the anger was stronger, and it was directed at _everyone_ : at the attackers, at himself, and at her, this nascent weakness. He wanted to destroy, and to punish; he was the Allfather, and he was the _king_. Someone had brought poison into the king’s hall, and he would make them pay. 

So now he forced himself to walk at a calm pace in Ragna’s form, trying as he might to conceal the wrathful god within. He smiled as he approached Hakon, hoping that he did not look as murderous as he felt. “I am returned,” he said, Ragna’s soft voice flowing past his lips with ease.

The boy stood, looking concerned. “Is everything alright?” he asked.

“Yes, of course,” Loki laughed. “I had promised him another dance, but I lost track of time.” He glanced around. “And I have also lost track of my drink,” he said. “Did that servant ever return?”

Hakon looked relieved, and it pricked at Loki’s ire, for the man had sat right beside Ragna and almost allowed her to die. What use was his concern? he thought, full of disdain.

“No,” the lord replied, “he did not, and in fact I have not seen him since. But I am sure that I can find you another." 

“That will not be necessary,” Loki assured him, maintaining Ragna’s pleasant expression. “I cannot stay much longer, truthfully, as I need to pack for my journey to Vanaheim.”

He saw some stronger emotion flicker in the lord’s eyes at that, and Loki wondered if he had accidentally managed to locate the other man’s backbone. Hakon clasped his hand in his, and Loki found himself fighting the urge to grimace. “Ragna, I am telling you, the Allfather can be reasoned with; you do not have to leave. I know you,” he insisted, “and I can see that this is not what you want. The rest of the handmaidens would be happy to speak for you, as well.” 

Loki could just picture that, Ragna and her little band of disciples petitioning the Allfather in his cavernous throne room, daring to test him. She was always finding ways to test him. “It is a kind offer,” he soothed, patting the offending hand lightly, “but there truly is no reason to stir up any kind of trouble on my account. I will have a grand time, and I shall return eventually.”

Much to his relief, Hakon let go, sighing deeply. “I would never go against your wishes, of course.”

“I know.” It hurt the boy, he could tell, to think that she would leave for so long, so easily, and Loki relished it.

“I should go,” he said. “I must speak with the other ladies before I leave. But I am glad that I had the chance to dance with you before I left, my lord. Farewell, for now.” Hakon bowed and Loki curtsied, and then he went to hunt down the rest of Ragna’s compatriots.

The redhead that she seemed to cling to had just finished dancing and was now catching her breath off to the side, so Loki went to her. “I must retire for the evening, I’m afraid,” he said, keeping Ragna’s blue eyes wide and rueful. “I will miss you, my friend.”

“Oh, Ragna,” the girl cried, embracing Loki in yet another distasteful display of emotion. “Please do not leave us again so soon!”

He returned the embrace for just long enough to hopefully be convincing, then carefully disentangled himself. “All will be well,” he said reassuringly. “Now, will you please convey my farewells to the others? I do not want to put any more of a damper on the evening.”

“Of course,” she sniffed. “May the Norns lead you back to us soon.”

 _Such dramatics_ , he thought, fighting the urge to roll his eyes as he strode from the Great Hall. The fools all acted as if she was in some grave mortal peril; although technically accurate, _they_ did not know that.  

Ducking into a hidden alcove in an empty hallway, Loki slipped back into the soldier’s form, stalking towards the kitchens. What he _wanted_ to do was sit upon Hlidskjalf as Loki, King of the Nine Realms, and bang the great staff Gungnir on the floor, summoning his Einherjar to root out the traitors and drag them to him in chains. For now, he would have to content himself with tracking them down on his own; this way, at least, he would be able to enjoy the thrill of the hunt.

The man was nowhere to be found in the vast palace kitchens, and Loki was certain that the coward had already begun to make his escape, not waiting around to see whether or not his attempt had succeeded. That left only three possibilities: the stables, the airship hangar, and the docks. Based on his inept assassination attempt, Loki assumed that the man did not have the capability to steal or steer one of the longboats. The stables seemed like his best choice, and he sped there, feeling the strain of moving so far away from his illusory Allfather, hating the vulnerability of straying so far from his shielded rooms in the palace.

Loki had always been an excellent tracker, and it did not take him long to pick up barely-discernible traces of dark magic and poison in the air. He slipped into one of the smaller stable buildings, one that housed some of the speediest messenger-horses, latching the door behind him. The servant was already loading up saddlebags, so rushed that he apparently did not notice the god’s stealthy entrance. That was fine with Loki; he enjoyed the element of surprise.

“A murderer of women _and_ a horse-thief,” he drawled, and the man spun around in shock, “It is so _difficult_ to find good help these days.”

“I do not know-” the man began to babble, but Loki picked him up by his throat, slamming him into the wall, furious that the man would try to deny what was so plainly obvious.

“It is not wise to lie to me,” he hissed, pulling the goblet from thin air with his free hand. The servant’s eyes widened in fear and recognition, and Loki smiled malevolently. “Oh, so you _do_ know. How fortunate, for I am willing to show you mercy.”

He forced the man’s mouth open, pouring the contents of the cup down his throat, then released him suddenly, allowing him to slump to the floor. “Allow me to explain how this goes,” Loki said, crouching down to meet the other man’s eyes. “A spell is currently containing the poison that you intended to use on Ragna Askrdóttir. If I choose to release said spell,” he snapped his fingers, “just like that, it will flood through you, bringing about a most painful demise. It will take minutes, but I will make certain that it feels like _years._ If you answer my questions truthfully, I shall spare you. Do we understand each other?”

The servant nodded furiously. “Please,” he gasped, “have mercy, I-”

“I do not want to hear your excuses,” Loki said, holding up a hand. “I want to know who sent you, and why.”

“I do not know!” He quailed as Loki’s eyes flashed in anger. “I swear,” he continued. “They offered me more gold than I would earn in a hundred years, and I never saw any of their faces! They did not tell me their quarrel with the girl, only that they were tying up loose ends!”

 _They_. That was useful information, at least. “How many?” Loki growled.

“I only met two, and they were always cloaked and masked.”

“Æsir? Vanir? Ljósálfar?”

“I do not know!” the man wailed, and Loki wrinkled his nose in disgust. A would-be murderer, and a coward. _Pathetic._

“Where did you find the poison?”

“It was left for me, in a hidden alcove near the kitchens.”

Loki was filled with fury, imagining multiple conspirators skulking through _his_ palace. He held up a clenched fist, and as the man stared at it in fear, he slowly began to open it. The assassin choked and gasped, poison beginning to seep into his veins. “Is there anything else that you can tell me, wretch?” he asked with false friendliness.

“No!” the assassin cried out, “That is all that I know, I swear it.”

Fingers spreading wider, Loki observed with a grim sense of satisfaction as a trickle of blood ran down the man’s chin, something beyond rage setting in as he imagined the light fading from Ragna’s lively, trusting blue eyes.

“Please,” the man choked, “you said-”

“I am the God of Lies,” Loki interrupted, opening his hand fully, watching with a cold expression as the man slumped to the floor, far beyond words.

He checked the man’s pockets, but found nothing of note. The saddlebags were full of gold, and Loki left it; he had no use for it. The tinge of seiðr hung in the air, but as with the library, there was no source, only a faint aura, a stain that had yet to fade. It only served to make him more angry, and he stormed back to the palace, the satisfaction that he’d felt when he watched the man die only providing a temporary distraction from the rage that he felt at not _knowing_.

The heavy cloaking magic and complex illusions had weakened him, especially when confronted with the tremendous task of containing the brunt force of his emotions, and Loki decided that he had no choice but to retake the form of the Allfather, allowing the guise of Sir Einar to retire for the night. It was excruciating, sitting there listening to the High Lords and the dwarven emissaries chattering, for Loki could not banish the image of Ragna, lying dead and pale, from his mind.

She had asked if he had been watching her in the halls, he suddenly remembered, and his blood ran cold. They had been waiting for her, he realized, waiting to see if she had survived their first encounter, waiting for a chance to act. He still did not know if they targeted Odin or Loki Laufeyson, but either way, it was clear that the girl would continue to be in mortal peril until the plot was uncovered.

 _Or,_ some part of him suggested, perhaps it was all according to some elaborate plan, a set-up to make him trust her, to drive them closer together. A complex scheme, certainly, but it sounded like something Loki would devise himself. Perhaps they wanted to see if he would protect her, to see how far he was willing to go for her. Perhaps she had known.

But no, she could not possibly be so skilled in deception, for her fear and confusion held no hint of a lie. _Or is that only what you want to believe?_ the dark part of him whispered. In any case, he had to keep her close at hand, even moreso now than before. He would need to ward the Allfather’s chambers more carefully, and he would need to bolster his power as soon as possible. There was no question that another attempt would be made, likely sooner rather than later.

It helped that the Allfather was old and still expected to be in mourning, for Loki was able to acceptably excuse himself while the festivities were still ongoing. The urge to race back to his chambers was nearly overwhelming, but Loki could not afford to draw any unwanted attention, not now, so he forced himself to move at a regal, dignified pace, nodding at the throngs that stopped to bow as he passed. Normally, he would have revelled in their subservience; tonight, it was merely a nuisance. He had to see her, although he was unsure of what he would do when he did finally reach her, for his heart and his mind were both a chaotic mix of fury and a damnable sense of _concern_.

An Einherji opened the great door to his chamber, spelled ever since his little visitor arrived so that no one could see the room’s true contents from outside the threshold, and the Allfather stepped inside, shedding his guise as soon as the door was firmly secured behind him. Loki groaned, rolling his shoulders. Had it always been this draining, he wondered, taking the forms of others for so long? He had never noticed it having such a profound effect on him before.

The fire was still burning in the hearth, although it had died out quite a bit, and as he made his way closer, he saw that Ragna was curled up asleep on one of the couches, her own favorite armchair abandoned. She had stolen one of the pillows from his bed, and her face was buried in it; her pale cheeks were marked with faint streaks, and he realized with a tiny pang that she must have been crying for some time. It was chilly, he noticed then, which would explain why she was balled up so tightly; for some reason, it seemed that she had changed back into his tunic of her own volition, and Loki knew that the short, thin fabric could not be providing much warmth.

The king tried to hold onto his rage, really, he did, but he found that at that moment, he simply _couldn’t._ What would he have done, he wondered, if he had been a second too late, if the poison had sped through her small body, if she had perished right in front of him? No, not even in front of _him,_ in front of one of the many false faces that he now wore. What would he have done? Loki was not sure.

Should he wake her now, or try to move her to their bed without disturbing her? _My bed,_ he furiously corrected himself. _My bed, which is currently the best place for the prisoner._ He was the God of Lies; could it possibly hurt to lie to himself?

Sighing, he hoisted her and her captive pillow from the couch, burying away the flicker of warmth that he felt when she murmured something unintelligible and nuzzled against his shoulder. “Hmm?” he questioned, keeping his eyes fixed forward as he moved towards the bedchamber.

She muttered something barely discernible again, and Loki strained to hear. “Did you say that you cannot sleep?” he said, glancing down at her in incredulity. “You are already sleeping, girl.”

Yawning, she opened her eyes, peering at him in the dim light as he shouldered open the bedroom door. “Necklace would not come off,” she said, still half-asleep, “It is magical.”

Ah, yes, he _had_ noticed that, and he had to agree that the effect _was_ rather magical; the combination of her short little tunic-dress and the elaborate, delicate silver collar was actually very enticing, and he had been doing his very best to ignore it since he had returned.

“You would like it removed?” Loki said, turning the covers back with a flick of a finger and settling her underneath.

“Mhmm,” Ragna replied, “Do not make it disappear, please.”

Loki’s lip twitched in what probably would have been a smirk, if he had not been feeling so strangely after the day’s events. “You wish to keep it?”

“Please.”

“Alright, little one,” he said, feeling something terribly, frighteningly similar to fondness as he trailed his finger down the links of the collar, unfastening it but leaving it tangible. He took it and placed it in his wardrobe, and he was about to leave the room, to pretend to himself that he would finally be able to do the right thing and sleep alone on the couch, when he heard her soft voice calling out to him.

“Loki? Please stay.”

He shouldn’t; he knew that, and he could not afford to keep making mistakes. Still, she sounded frightened and small, and Loki grit his teeth in frustration as he realized that he had been convinced from the moment his name had left her lips. Stripping down to his breeches, he joined her under the covers, tensing when she wiggled against his side, throwing her arm around his chest. It did not make sense, and his inability to understand irritated him; why was she doing this, after he had lost his temper so tremendously, after he had caused her to cry herself to sleep? Squeezing his eyes closed, he willed himself to stop _thinking_ and just go to sleep.

“Thank you,” Ragna whispered, and his heart stuttered as he felt her lips press a tiny kiss against his chest. Cursing himself for his weakness, he lifted a hand to pet her tousled golden hair.

“Sleep,” he said softly, voice not quite as gruff as he had intended. She seemed to obey almost immediately, breath becoming steady and deep, and much to his relief, Loki followed into dreamless slumber soon after her.

 

* * *

 

Loki awoke first the next morning, his situation far more compromising than when he has fallen asleep. She had _entwined_ herself around him, for lack of a better description, her leg now firmly wrapped around his waist, her arm around his neck. He was almost certain that he could feel small fingers tangled in his hair, as well, though he feared moving to check.  

Cursing himself to Hel and back in his mind, he stared up at Yggdrasil, wondering how to escape from his tormentor before she came to and noticed the rather painful, obvious effect that she was having on him.

 _Anger,_ he told himself, _anger and logic are always the answer. Think of nothing else. Feel nothing else._ But it was easier said than done, especially now that she seemed to be playing with his hair in her sleep. _Damn her,_ he thought despairingly.

He forced himself to remember why she was there in the first place, to remind himself that she was a liability that he would eventually have to deal with, one way or another. The more attached he allowed himself to become now, the more difficult it would be in the end. And really, he told himself, perhaps it _was_ too convenient that he has caught the would-be assassin so easily. Maybe he had been wrong to dismiss her involvement so soon. At best she was a liability, at worst, an active threat. It was wrong to want her so badly.

Though, he was a man, and she was an unquestionably pretty maiden, so on a base level, he could excuse his urges, even as he resolved not to act upon them. How else could any man respond, waking up with a beautiful woman wrapped in his arms day after day? It was not his fault that he felt this way now; it was _hers._

It did help, allowing his ire to build, shoving away any of the more tender, needier emotions that may have begun to surface. Yes, this was all _her_ fault, and Loki told himself yet again that he would be glad to be rid of her, even though he knew it was a blatant lie.

But now he had waited too long, and Ragna began to stir, her thigh brushing against him as she rolled onto her back, stretching as she started to wake. Stifling a groan at the contact, Loki vanished himself to the bathing chamber the second he was free from her grasp, hoping desperately that she would fall back asleep in his absence and he would not have to face her.

When he re-entered the bedchamber a few moments later using more conventional methods than how he’d left it, he was a bit calmer, less on-edge. Certainly the God of Lies, the _Allfather,_ was equipped to handle a small handmaiden, and Loki was resolved to stay in that mindframe; he was a king, as she was a subject, a captive. Nothing more.

So why was it, then, that Loki felt the tiniest bit chagrined when he saw her, only her head peeking out from the bundle of covers that now nestled against the headboard, her expression concerned? It had been a traumatic evening for her, he had to admit, and he had been the cause of at least some part of her distress.

He perched cross-legged on the end of the bed, carefully keeping his distance. Ragna was watching him carefully. What to say? “The man who made an attempt on your life is dead,” he blurted, cringing a bit at her expression.

“You killed him?” Ragna whispered.

“Of course,” Loki frowned. “Did you think I would not?”

“You did not kill me.” She looked away. “Yet,” she added.

“You are different,” he said, irritated that she failed to understand, that she would try to make him feel guilty when he had just saved her life. “Would you prefer if I had not spared you? If I had not saved you?”

“No, sire. I am grateful for both. I am merely… confused.”

Loki was confused, too, but he would never admit it to her. “We will proceed as before,” he said. “But do not ask me to leave these rooms again, for I will not allow it.”

“Never?” 

“No, Ragna,” he snapped, frustrated. “You very nearly died last night, in case you have forgotten.”

“I have not forgotten,” she said, emerging further from the covers with a slightly mulish look beginning to appear in her eyes. “Your concern for my _health_ and _safety_ is touching, my king.”

His jaw tightened. Why did she insist on being so pliant one moment, and so quarrelsome the next? She was going to drive him mad. “If you are so displeased with my company,” he hissed, “then why did you beg me to come to bed with you last night?” 

Instant regret flooded him, for he had sworn to himself only moments before that he would try to forget that particular moment of weakness had even occured. Ragna’s cheeks turned a fetching shade of pink, expressive eyes wide and embarrassed. “I did not beg,” she muttered. 

 _“Loki, please stay,”_ he mimicked, and she actually had the _audacity_ to glare at him. He couldn’t believe that he had actually felt pity for her earlier; her lack of gratitude, of fearful respect, was appalling.  

“And you _chose_ to stay,” she said.

“It is not my way to turn willing women from my bed,” Loki sneered, aiming to offend her honor, but surprised when something closer to hurt flashed in her eyes. _Is she about to cry?_ he thought, panicking slightly as a faint sheen of tears began to appear. “Why did you want me to stay?” he asked after an uncomfortable pause, trying to keep the bite from his tone. 

“You make me feel safe, from everyone else, at least,” Ragna admitted ruefully, stretching out her arm and jingling the bracelet that wrapped around her small wrist. “You always have.”

That made sense, at least. Loki was now her only source of comfort, of security, and it was only logical that she would begin to feel dependent upon him, especially given their ancient, rather complicated history. And so, feeling a bit relieved to have a reasonable explanation for her strange attachment to him, he said, “You _are_ safe from everyone else when you are with me. That is why you are not to leave these chambers again, do you understand?”

“Yes, sire” she sighed, all of the fight seemingly gone from her small body. He noticed that she was shivering.

“Are you cold,” he asked, “or merely upset?”

“Both,” she said. “It seems that the winter is coming in early this year, and when the fire dies down, your rooms become terribly cold. Do you not notice?”

“Jötunn,” he reminded her, brow lifted. Had she really found it so easy to overlook that she had been sleeping next to a Frost Giant these past few nights? The truth of his birth was common-enough knowledge now, after everything that had happened.

“Ah,” Ragna said, and he saw a familiar look of academic curiosity spark in her eyes. At least she didn’t appear to be on the verge of tears any longer. “But you are warm to the touch.”

Loki looked to his pale hands, where they currently rested in his lap, thinking how easy it would be to freeze her to death in his birth-form. “I am,” he replied. “But the cold does not bother me, unless it is extreme. I do enjoy warmth,” he added, the memory of her curled up around him under the covers, soft and inviting, rising to his mind unbidden, “though it is not a necessity.”

“Fascinating. Perhaps you should give me some pants, then, if you intend to keep your rooms so chill.”

“I think not,” he scoffed, thankful that the uncomfortable tension seemed to be fading into something more teasing, something that he was actually equipped to handle. “I will see to it that the fire is kept roaring along at all times, however.”

“It would be greatly appreciated.”

Pausing, Loki wondered how to question her more fully about the events of the previous night without making things so uncomfortable again. Perhaps he would simply wait until later. It would not change anything, not really; he had already decided that she would not be leaving again, so he might as well let her get back into her daily routine.

“I cannot stay long,” he said. “Though everyone will likely sleep in after the festivities last night, there is still much to be done today. We will talk more when I return tonight, and I should not be very late. You have your books, of course, and I will leave something for you to eat before I go.”

“No servants today?” she frowned.

“You do not seem to be able to detect the smell of poisons,” he admitted awkwardly. It was a topic he had hoped to avoid. “On the unlikely chance that someone has deduced that I have you hidden away in here, I would prefer to take extra precautions.”

Her eyes were wide. “I see.”

This entire conversation had not gone as planned. Loki thought that it was a good representation of his life in general, as of late. “Try to keep yourself occupied,” he told her as he got up and pulled on a fresh tunic and jacket from his wardrobe. “It will help you keep your mind off things.”

He looked back once as he reached for the door handle, almost tempted to linger, but he forced himself across the threshold. Today would be another long, exhausting affair, and he may as well tackle it as soon as possible. He was not sure if it helped or hurt to know that Ragna would be there waiting for him when he returned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My semester just ended, it's an extremely rare snow day here, AND I've finished a new chapter! Woohoo!
> 
> This chapter might be tied with the last one as my favorite. I love writing Loki's POV, especially when he's furiously trying to make excuses for himself... poor guy.


	14. The Truth of a Name

Ragna was beginning to fear that she might go a little mad, especially if the past week was anything to go by. Not only had she found Loki alive and well, but the Trickster Prince was now her jailor, and her savior, and for _her,_ at least, something more. The way that he looked at her sometimes made something warm flare to life deep within her belly, and yet a moment later, he would seem almost ready to lock her in the dungeons and throw away the key. It was stressful, and exhausting, and she was not sure how much more of it she could endure.

At least the dreams had gone away, for now. That was the primary reason that she had asked him to stay, though she was ashamed to admit to him that she feared her nightmares so profoundly; it made her sound like a child. She would not expect him to understand it. When the king was near, it was almost as if the nightmares were drowned out by an overwhelming sense of calmness. It did not make sense, but it was a relief, and yet another reason she was grateful to have the God of Mischief near.

It was also a relief that he had saved her life, for she would have expected him to follow after the assassin immediately, rather than to waste his time with her. She knew that he wanted to keep her alive until he had uncovered the entirety of the plot, but at the same time… at the same time, he had gone out of his way to tell her, on more than one occasion, that she was expendable, that she was here serving a (probably short) life-sentence.

When he had left her there the night before, storming off in a rage after informing her that she’d been only inches from an excruciatingly painful death, Ragna had reached an entirely new level of desperation. Somehow, the reality had truly sunk in that when Loki said she would be here for the rest of her life, he truly _meant_ it. Unless she managed to escape, she would never see her friends, her home, or her family again.

Then the shock set in. She had gone to the window and reconsidered the sheer drop that she had once judged to be too dangerous. Did it even matter, now? He was just keeping her alive so that he could finish her off himself at the most opportune moment. Perhaps it would be worth it, to at least make an attempt at freedom, no matter what happened. But looking down at the ground far below, Ragna was hit with the terrifying certainty that she did _not_ want to die.

She wanted to _live,_ and Loki had saved her, had brought her here, she realized with a sudden sense of clarity, because he was _afraid._ The necklace gleamed back at her from her reflection in the smooth glass, an unspoken promise. He did not want her to die, either, she thought, pieces slowly clicking into place, and that was what made him so terribly, unyieldingly angry. For whatever reason, the king was afraid of losing her, and she knew that he would never forgive her for it. 

Forcing herself to breathe deeply and _think,_ Ragna had made herself go to his bedchamber and change back into her tunic, shivering at the sudden change of temperature. She could not find a latch on the collar, and she finally gave up, afraid that she would damage it. It would be best, she told herself, to imagine that tonight had never happened. The beautiful dress, the way he had looked at her while they danced, saying farewell to her friends, the poison… perhaps she could pretend that it had all been a dream. Snatching his pillow off of the bed, Ragna retreated back towards the warmth of the fire, burying her face in the pillow and the fresh, comforting smell of him. It was wrong, she knew, to feel such things for the king, but she could not ignore her heart, so she cried herself to sleep instead.

 

* * *

 

Her dreams had been frightening, but she could not remember them, for they had vanished along with a sudden sense of weightlessness when he had returned and swept her into his arms. She did not remember exactly what she had said, but she remembered the overwhelming desire for him to _stay._ And he had. 

Then their conversation had turned sour, as usual, and he had left her alone once again. Ragna wondered if he was planning to hunt down and kill more of the conspirators, if he had found out anything of note. It was wrong of her, she thought, to feel a strange sense of satisfaction that the man who had intended to kill her was dead, and it weighed heavily on her conscience.

Being alone again so soon made her anxious, and her emotions were already in a raw, brittle sort of state. She tried to read for a while, but she could not distract herself, so she decided to take a bath. There was not much else that she could do, really. If he wanted her to keep herself occupied, she would have to ask him to provide her with more to work with, and hope that he was in a mood for granting requests.

As she sank into the steaming water, the memory of his earlier barb floated to her mind unbidden. _“It is not my way to turn willing women from my bed,”_ he had said. It had hurt more than she ever would have expected, this reminder that what she shared with him was nothing special, at least not to him. Ragna was no fool; even though she had been removed from court life for many centuries, the royal family was the source of daily gossip. Loki was handsome, charming, powerful… he could have had any goddess he wanted, and it was likely that he had woken up wrapped in the arms of more women than she could count.

Frowning slightly, she examined herself in the mirror along the wall, rising up slightly out of the water. Her figure, she knew, was not the Asgardian ideal; she was far too petite, and there was a certain softness to her that no amount of arms training with her brothers had ever been able to rectify. It was likely due to her ancestry, she supposed; at least, that was what the other children had often teased her about. She offered very little competition to the many statuesque, classically-beautiful women at court.

Dismissing her thoughts as foolish, she climbed out of the water, eager to dry off and return to the warmth of her couch and attempt, once more, to distract herself with reading. What did it matter, really, if Loki thought her worthy or not? Even if he did want to keep her alive, she had no expectation that he would ever feel for her what she felt for him. She was not even certain what she _did_ feel for him, although she knew that it was intense, and increasingly painful.

It was in this brooding, anxious mood that Ragna finally came across a reference that might be promising; within an old Ljósálfar history book, there was a very brief, specific mention of memory mages from Svartalfheim visiting the Light Court back before the days of Bor. There was not much to the account, but the mention of the Dark Elf homeworld drew her attention, for it seemed almost too coincidental that Loki had so recently ‘died’ there, especially considering how long the realm had been abandoned.

Loki had kept his word and left food for her breakfast, and she did not know how to feel about the fact that her favorite sweet rolls made yet another appearance. Did he know? Was it his attempt at an apology, or a coincidence that she was reading too far into? Bribery, perhaps? She supposed that it was easiest for him if she was in a complacent mood, especially now that he was being forced to spend so much time with her. 

The day dragged on for what seemed like an eternity, and Ragna was soon anxiously watching the area near the door for Loki’s return. It was long past dinnertime, and the sun had gone down hours ago. The king was late. Had something happened to him? Had there been another attack? She began to pace after a while, trying to decide what to do.

After a few turns around the room, an idea suddenly appeared; Loki had told her in the beginning that if she tried to escape, he would know, had he not? She would try to open the door, and whatever enchantment he had placed should alert him to her attempt. If he was well, she had no doubt that he would come running to deal with her, and if he did not appear… well, then she really would have to figure out how to escape, for he was surely in trouble.

Squaring her shoulders, Ragna marched determinedly towards the door, trying to mentally brace herself against the oncoming pain of whatever seiðr was guarding it. She had almost reached it when Loki suddenly appeared right inside the threshold, and she smacked solidly into his chest.

The king was clearly startled by the impact, and he grabbed her by the upper arms. “Where do you think you’re going, girl?” he asked, eyeing her suspiciously.

She should have been intimidated, but at the moment, Ragna was filled with an overwhelming sense of _relief_. “Sire!” she exclaimed, immediately blushing a bit at the enthusiasm in her voice, “you are returned." 

Loki gave her a strange look, still holding her slightly away from him. “Of course,” he said. “Why would I not?”

The way the king was watching her made Ragna’s embarrassment increase; perhaps it had been foolish to let herself get worked into such a state of anxiety over his whereabouts. “You were late,” she muttered finally. “I began to grow concerned.”

His brow lifted. “You did, did you? Do you consider yourself my keeper, Ragna Askrdóttir?”

“No,” she replied, and feeling a slight twinge of irritation at his tone, she tried to pull away.

“Ah-ah,” Loki’s grip tightened. “I am curious to know what, exactly, you thought may have befallen me, to merit such concern.”

Ragna cleared her throat, feeling awkward now. Could he not simply let it go? “Given the events of yesterday evening,” she rushed, “I feared that there may have been another attack, or that you were off killing someone, or…” 

Her words ran out, and the king continued to watch her expectantly. “Or…?” 

Flushing, she evaluated her options; she did not really have any, for his hold on her arms was still firm. “Or perhaps you were simply seeking out another’s company, as I am nothing but a _foolish child.”_ She immediately regretted how petulant she sounded, but the emotion behind it rang true. It was not fair, that he could go and come as he pleased, leaving her alone with her nothing but her increasingly chaotic thoughts for company.

Loki actually laughed at her then, releasing her and heading towards his chair, waving for her to follow. “I am the Allfather. Who I kill and who I keep my company with is none of your concern. Although,” he added, turning towards her with glittering eyes, “I must admit that jealousy looks quite fetching on you.”

_How dare he?_ she thought. “I was simply worried that you would leave me trapped in this place for an eternity, sire. If you were to die, no one else would know that I am here.” Her tone was sweet, but her fists were clenched tightly at her sides.

The king sprawled out in his chair, still looking slightly amused. “Sit,” he commanded. “And if I were to die, little one, then surely you know that you would be able to walk out of here unhindered? Most of my enchantments would fade almost instantly, much like that bracelet of yours.”

That was a good point, and one that her worried mind had not considered. “But,” she said, settling into her own chair, “you might have been in mortal peril, even if you lived, and I would still be trapped.” Ragna studied the bracelet on her wrist, which currently looked as shiny and new as ever. “In fact, after all that has happened over the past few years, I am not even certain that you _can_ die.”

The god snorted, a decidedly un-kingly sound. “You would have made a terrible assassin, Lady Ragna, if you do not even believe that I can be killed.”

“Yes, I suppose I would have,” she murmured. Then, his words registered. “You no longer suspect that I am an assassin?” Ragna asked hopefully.

“If you are,” Loki replied, “then you are so dreadful at it that I am certain I have nothing to fear. On the other hand, I am still not convinced that you are not involved in some other way, so do not think that you have earned my trust.”

“Of course,” she said. His refusal to simply _believe_ her was frustrating, but unsurprising. And, the king currently seemed to be in a very good mood, especially considering the drama of the previous day; she did not want to spoil it. “Where were you, then?”

“So inquisitive,” he remarked. “Are you hungry?”

“Yes.” She frowned at his deflection, and Loki rolled his eyes, snapping his fingers to make a tray appear on the table. Ragna tried not to let it impress her, but there was something so inherently fascinating about his casual displays of power. 

“You do not have to sound so sullen, girl. I intend to tell you, but I wish to have something to eat while I do so. It has been a busy day, and I am famished.”

She plucked a roll from the tray and began to carefully butter it. “Very well, sire,” she said primly. “The floor is yours.”

Loki muttered something that sounded suspiciously similar to _testy wench,_ fixing himself a plate. “Well, as you know, things are already quite hectic at the moment, what with the presence of our guests. In addition to all of the entertaining and playing the generous host, I _do_ have to actually conduct business with them. Several of their outlying mining cities have been under assault, ever since the Bifrost was destroyed and Asgard temporarily removed from the playing field. Now that it is restored, they want increased military support.” He sighed. “But they are so tight-fisted that they do not wish to pay for it.”

Her eyes narrowed a bit as he completely breezed past any admittance of guilt. “Do you not feel as though you may owe them a favor, considering you played a significant part in destroying the Bifrost in the first place?”

“No,” he replied, glaring at her slightly, “my dear brother is the one who chose to sever Asgard from the rest of the Nine Realms, not me. In fact, if not for _me,_ they never would have been able to rebuild it so quickly.”

“Forgive me for my ignorance, but were you not destroying the _entire realm_ of Jotunheim at the time?”

Shrugging, he took a bite of a tart. “They posed a threat.”

Ragna took a deep breath, telling herself that there was no point in pursuing this topic of conversation at the moment. “So you had to attend to the emissaries from Nidavellir all day, then?”

“Oh no, that was just the start of it. One of the stable hands found the body of that servant who attempted to murder you, so that had to be dealt with immediately. Odin Allfather, in his wisdom, decreed that there must be some plot afoot in the palace, for a man to be found poisoned with such an obscenely large amount of gold in his possession. The Warriors Three are on the case, now. I must admit that it worked out quite nicely, all in all. Perhaps they will uncover something useful, and at the very least it should keep them busy and out of my way.”

“You poisoned him?” she asked, tensing at the mention of her very recent near-death experience.

“It is fitting, is it not?”

She supposed it was, but she did not wish to hear any more about it. “How much gold?” she asked.

Loki smirked at her. “You wish to know how much your life was worth? Quite a lot, apparently. He had been paid well enough to set him up nicely for a century, at least.” He laughed at her stricken, wide-eyed expression. “Would you like to keep it?”

“What?”

“Your blood-money. I have all of the treasures of Asgard at my disposal, so it is of no consequence to me. Would you like to have it?”

“I cannot imagine why I would need it, sire, as there does not appear to be anywhere to spend it here in your chambers.”

The king appeared unphased by her snappishness. “I suppose,” he said. “I will keep it, then, for the time being. Consider it your allowance, in case there is ever something you require.”

Briefly, Ragna entertained the mental image of sending Loki, disguised as Odin Allfather, out to the markets with a shopping list, and she almost laughed at the absurdity of it all. “Was that all, my king?”

“I begin to believe that you vastly underestimate the constant demands made of the Allfather, girl. Of course that was not all. I also spent quite some time with the Lady Sif.”

So, Ragna thought, Sif had returned to Asgard. Sif, who had always been so confident and lovely when they were young. Sif, whose attention had been so captured by Thor that a jealous Loki had ruined her golden hair forever in a childish prank. The goddess had always been an object of Ragna’s admiration and, much to her chagrin, her envy.

“I had heard that Lady Sif was on Midgard,” she said, trying to keep her voice free of whatever strange emotion it was that she currently felt.

“She was,” Loki replied, green eyes studying her carefully. “I recalled her.” 

“Ah.” 

“I need her to keep an eye on certain parties on Midgard, at least while Thor is off-world,” he elaborated. “The mortals are far more vulnerable than they realize, now that they have essentially declared themselves ready for inter-realm warfare.”

Nodding her understanding, Ragna picked up a peach and began to slice it, her inquisitiveness suddenly fizzling out. Loki did not say anything else for a moment, and when she finally glanced back up at him, he was watching her with an inscrutable expression. “I have never lain with Sif, Ragna,” he said suddenly. 

Mortified, she turned red. Had he no sense of propriety? “That is none of my concern,” she replied, wishing that she could disappear into her chair.

“Perhaps not,” the king said, dusting off his fingers and sitting up a bit straighter, “but I wished for you to know, regardless.”

Did he expect her thanks? Why would he even say such a thing? Her lips pressed together in a thin line, horrified that his admission had caused her to feel relief. It would be best not to say anything at all.

“Tell me of your day, Ragna.”

That, she could do. “I am going to go mad from boredom,” she declared. “As much as I love books, they can only distract me for so long. All that I can do here is bathe, eat, and read.”

“Is that not a perfect existance?”

“It is not,” she retorted. “And you know that you would despise it, also.”

“I should remind you,” Loki said, “that my cell in this palace was quite a bit smaller than the one you now find yourself in.”

“Then you should understand. Nevertheless, I did read something interesting today.” 

“Do tell.”

She pulled the book from the pile on the table, passing it to him. “It is not much, I’m afraid. Just a mention of memory mages from Svartalfheim. I thought that it might be worth further investigation, especially since you were on their realm so recently.”

Loki quickly glanced over the page that she’d marked, frowning slightly. “The Dark Elves are all dead, Ragna. Malekith and his soldiers were the last of their race.”

“Odin thought the same, until they reappeared again.” The king did not look convinced. “I am not saying that I am certain, sire, only that it is a possibility to consider. Even if they have all perished, the spell may have originated on Svartalfheim.”

“And how would it have gotten inside that pretty little head of yours, then, my lady? Have you made any undocumented trips to Svartalfheim as of late?”

“Do not mock me, please. I am only trying to help,” Ragna sighed, pressing her hand to her temple. She felt a headache coming on.

“I know,” Loki said, placing the book back on the table. “But if I am going forward on the assumption that you are not directly involved in this plot, then there has to be some explanation as to why you were used in it. Why would Dark Elves, or any beings tied to them, even be aware of your existence?”

Surprised, Ragna met his eyes. Did he really not know? “Because of my great-grandmother?” she ventured. Loki merely stared at her. “Do you not know why my family resides in Ringsfjord, sire?” 

“I thought that it was simply because your family estate was of low-standing,” he said, brow furrowing in confusion. “Why would I possibly know any different?”

“Do you not remember how the other children teased me?” Ragna exclaimed. _Surely_ he remembered that.

“Of course I do,” Loki snapped. “It is why I gave you that thrice-accursed bracelet in the first place. Frigga only spoke of your family being a bit different.” She laughed, completely taken aback by the fact that she knew something that the god did not, and his expression darkened, instantly sobering her. He did not look pleased. “Explain yourself,” he demanded.

“My king…” Ragna trailed off, wondering where to begin. _Start with the most relevant information,_ she decided. “My great-grandmother was Vör, a titled goddess and shield-maiden. She was a companion of Odin, in his youth, and she fought in Bor’s army upon Svartalfheim, and on many other realms, in fact. She was chosen to be a Valkyrie, but she refused to take the oath.”

“Vör, Goddess of Wisdom,” Loki murmured, looking at her as if she’d sprouted wings.

She swallowed thickly. It did not seem that he was taking this well, and she knew it would only get worse. “Yes. I was named Ragna in honor of her, for she provided counsel to Odin in his time of need. She alone journeyed with him to Mímisbrunnr, where he traded his eye for wisdom.”

Loki’s face was worryingly calm, and she could only imagine what he might be thinking. “Why did she refuse the oath of the Valkyrie?” he asked.

“She had fallen in love,” Ragna whispered. “During a mission on Midgard. Bor banished her for it, but Odin Allfather allowed her to return to Asgard when he became king, though he never wished to see to her again. He felt betrayed, I think, that she would choose love over her duty to the realm. Vör returned with her children, and raised them in semi-exile far from court.”

“You have mortal blood,” he said slowly, and though his face remained blank, his tone was slightly accusing.

“It is hardly a well-kept secret,” she said, feeling hurt. “I had always assumed that you knew. Her husband had died long before, and once her children were grown, she let herself fade away. After a generation or two, our lifespans have returned to that of every other Asgardian. There is very little mortality left in Vör’s line, now.”

“It is why you are so small.” Loki took a deep breath, and Ragna noticed with some alarm that his fist was clenched tightly on the arm of his chair. “And weak.”

She blinked, surprised to find that a tear or two had formed. He hated her, then. “I suppose so.”

“I wish to sleep,” the king said, standing suddenly. “It is late.”

Ragna curled up tighter on her chair and closed her eyes. Of course he did not want to speak with her now; everyone knew how Loki felt about mortals. It should have been obvious that he had not known, for he certainly would have mocked her for it before if he had.

She did not hear the sound of him leaving, and after a few seconds, she opened her eyes. Loki was watching her with a guarded expression. “Come along,” he said, sounding impatient. “You cannot expect me to carry you every night.”

Something tiny, dangerously similar to hope, sparked deep within her chest. “I do not expect it,” she whispered, and she stood and made her way to the bedchamber, the king following closely behind her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FINALLY. I have been waiting to get to this conversation for so long, and I had a hard time not dropping more glaring hints about Ragna's background along the way. That's what Loki gets for acting like he knows everything! 
> 
> The root element of Ragna's name means something along the lines of 'counsel/advise/power of the gods.' I always like to hide some significance in the names of my OCs.


	15. The Flight from Reason

Blood pooled around the wickedly sharp knife in her abdomen, and the girl slumped to the ground, the god kneeling to follow her. She said nothing, merely staring at him wide-eyed, shock setting in quickly. “Oh, Ragna,” he sighed, pushing a wayward strand of hair out of her face, leaving a crimson streak in its wake. “A new world is about to be born. You, darling, simply have no part in it.” His voice was soft, almost soothing, and he watched as her eyes fluttered closed.

He stood, turning to scan the vault through the smoke and rising flames. _Where was it? He needed it._ Striding forward, his gaze suddenly caught a glimpse of his reflection, mirrored in a highly-burnished suit of armor. His eyes were glowing bright blue, his hands were covered in her blood, and he was _smiling._

 

* * *

 

Loki gasped, bolting awake. He felt cold, colder than he could ever remember, even when he had held the Casket of Ancient Winters in the very same vault that had appeared in his dream. Turning, he fumbled in the darkness, pushing aside the covers, reaching for her, but the girl was gone. His breathing was ragged, nerves sharp and on-fire. He had not felt this kind of pain in years, not since...

Tossing back the blanket, Loki practically leapt from the bed, crossing the room in a heartbeat, throwing open the door, forgetting his magic in his haste. _Where is she where is she where is she?_ his mind screamed, terrified of what he would find, terrified that he’d discover that he had done it himself.

The bathing chamber was open and empty, and he tore past it, rushing into the sitting room, armor materializing as he prepared himself to race down to the vault, when he suddenly spotted her. For a moment, they both froze, Ragna bent over near the hearth with a teapot in her hands, sleepy eyes startled, hair falling messily past her shoulders. She sat the pot down quickly, turning to stand. “Sire?” she questioned, sounding bewildered and slightly concerned. “What-”

He had crossed the room before she had a chance to finish the thought, catching her jaw in his hand. She was real, he thought with relief, her skin solid and warm. Tugging up her tunic as she gasped in protest, Loki smoothed a hand over her abdomen, checking for a mark. There was none.

It was almost as if he could feel his heart start beating again, and Loki stepped back from the now-terrified looking handmaiden, sinking into his chair with a groan, his armor vanishing. Ragna was staring at him as if he’d gone mad, arms crossed tightly across her chest, and he feared that she may be correct in her assessment. “I had a dream,” he offered weakly, feeling shamed by the strength of his reaction.

Ragna blinked, just watching him for a moment as the fire crackled, the only sound in the silent room. “What kind of dream, sire?” she said finally, still frozen in place.

His eyes closed. “You died,” he replied, voice dull. “I killed you.”

There was another pause, and when she spoke, he could hear the hesitancy in her voice. “It was… a bad dream?”

“Yes,” he replied, opening his eyes to regard her. “Of course.”

Ragna exhaled sharply, and she moved to sit in her chair across from him. Loki felt something close to guilt wash over him as the last vestiges of panic faded from his mind; the handmaiden looked shaken, and this time, it was solely his fault. “You were gone,” he stated awkwardly, trying to somehow explain his actions.

“Oh,” she said, voice equally uncertain. “I woke up and could not fall back asleep. I thought that I would make some tea…” She gestured at the neglected pot. “I was trying to figure out how to heat it without setting myself on fire.” There was another pause, and she fidgeted with the hem of her tunic, her grip tight. “Would you like some?”

Loki’s eyes drifted to her fingers, and his discomfort increased. “You had a stomach wound,” he said, a small part of him irritated that he felt the need to justify himself to his prisoner. “In the dream. I had to check.” He took a deep breath, despising himself for sounding so foolish.

The girl involuntarily reached a hand to her belly, almost as if she expected to find something there, as well. “I am… thankful that it was a _bad_ dream,” Ragna said, still a bit shaky. “Tea?” she offered again.

He shook his head. “Something stronger.”

“No,” she said, and he was surprised by her sudden firmness. “Tea will help you sleep.”

Loki stared at her. “I do not want to sleep,” he said, his tone taking a slight edge at her audacity. Had he not just badly frightened her, moments before?

“Please,” she added. “I am here, so you might as well allow me to help.”

Sighing, the god leaned back in his chair, noticing suddenly how sore his muscles were. He felt as if he’d just come back from battle. “Fine,” he muttered. If she was so determined to mother over him, he would allow it, just this once; the images from his dream were still too fresh for him to truly argue with her.

Ragna looked contemplatively at the teapot for a moment, then turned back to him. “Actually,” she ventured, “now that you are here, would you mind…?” she trailed off, and as Loki stared at her in disbelief, she snapped her fingers with a flourish.

He leaned forward, temper increasing slightly. “Are you truly suggesting that, in addition to preventing me from drinking myself into a blissful stupor, you also intend for _me_ to provide nighttime tea? The tea that _you_ are insisting that I have _in the first place?”_

She shrugged, looking slightly bashful. “I am not the most powerful sorcerer in the realm.”

“In _all_ the realms,” Loki snapped. He sat back, raking his fingers through his hair. The dream was beginning to fade, and Ragna wore a slightly satisfied expression. _She is doing it on purpose,_ he realized suddenly, _to distract me._ “What kind?” he grated out.

“Sire?”

“What kind of tea?”

Ragna was clearly startled. “Mint,” she said. “I have some in my chambers, in a green tin.”

He closed his eyes, and a second later, the tin clattered onto the table. “The snap,” he said, regarding her carefully, “is entirely unnecessary.”

“Ah.” She went to pick up the teapot, wincing a bit at the heat. “I think that it adds a nice touch.”

“What was your plan, girl, if I was not awake to fetch things from your chambers?”

“I was going to re-use what I had for breakfast this morning, actually,” she replied, returning to her seat. “This will serve much better.”

Loki watched silently as she fussed with the little tin. “Do you often have trouble sleeping?” he asked, remembering suddenly how exhausted she had looked in the days before he had caught her.

“I did,” she said, keeping her gaze lowered. “Before I found you, I had nightmares almost every time I closed my eyes.”

“And now?” The handmaiden flushed slightly, catching Loki’s interest. “Tell me,” he said.

“When you are near, I do not have them,” Ragna replied quietly, as if the admittance shamed her. Loki could understand that; he would never tell her that she seemed to have a similar effect on him.

“I see. What did you dream?”

Her eyes squeezed shut, and she opened them after a moment, looking slightly unsettled. “I cannot remember,” Ragna said, “not exactly. You were there always, and there was darkness, cold....” She met his gaze, and Loki noticed with some alarm that her eyes were beginning to look a bit vacant, hands shaking. “Laughter. Nothingness.”

“Ragna!” he snapped, reaching across the small table to grab her hand. “That is enough.”

As Loki squeezed her fingers, the handmaiden’s eyes refocused. “I am sorry,” she said. “They are a bit… overwhelming, I suppose.”

He frowned, releasing her hand. “It could be an effect of the spell. That would be the most likely explanation.”

Shuddering slightly, she poured the tea. “You are probably right. I am glad to be rid of them.”

He picked up a cup, sniffing it suspiciously. “This has a strange scent.”

Ragna laughed at that, nearly choking on her own tea. “I find that it smells like you,” she admitted. “Fresh and crisp, like the wintertime.”

Loki now found himself completely distracted from the subject of nightmares and spells, unsure of how to appropriately respond to her shy confession. Stalling for time, he took a drink, surprised to find that he actually liked it, but still certain that he would have preferred something a bit more numbing. He certainly did not wish to discuss the revelation of the night before, which he still had not had time to fully process, and he would prefer to forget the panicked way he had fled to her after his own dream.

“I did not realize that you paid such great attention to my scent, my lady,” he teased, deciding to allow himself the distraction. _What could it hurt?_

Flustered, Ragna took another long sip from her cup, curling her legs up in her chair. “I am surrounded by it,” she muttered.

A warm spark of possessiveness flared in his chest at that, but Loki studiously ignored it. It was a base feeling, and he was above such things.

Although, he was becoming something of a admirer of the way she looked when she had just awoken, he realized. The few braids she had left in her hair were loose and messy, and her tunic (well, _his_ tunic, really) was rumpled. There was something almost _domestic_ about seeing her this way, and he resented the feelings it stirred within him.

He should really give her something else to wear, other than a stack of green tunics. That was the main problem, he reassured himself. While it did succeed in aggravating the girl, she was also driving him mad with constant peeks at her soft thighs. _I’ll get her some clothes tomorrow,_ he thought.

“My king?” Ragna said, and Loki felt heat creep up his neck as he realized that he had been caught staring at the object of his musings.

He looked up. “Yes?”

“You looked angry,” she said, slightly apprehensive.

Loki sighed. She had every right to be nervous, really; in addition to being a prisoner, he had just told her that he’d vividly dreamed of killing her. And, it was actually better for her to think that he was silently nursing a temper than to know what he was truly thinking. “I am _usually_ angry. Many matters weigh heavily on my mind.”

“I know.” She did not know, he thought, not _really,_ and he was glad for it.

They sat in a comfortable silence for a time, and he had soon drained his teacup. “We should return to bed,” he said, the exhaustion of the past few days pressing down on him now that the adrenaline from his nightmare had faded.

“As you wish, my king,” Ragna replied as she rose and stood by his chair, a bit of mischief in her smile. “But do not expect me to carry you.”

It was not in Loki’s nature to let anyone else have the last word, and so he instinctively reached out to grab her arm, transporting both of them directly to the bedchamber.

He had acted without thinking, and it made for a rough landing, hitting the bed in a tangle of limbs and sheets. The girl coughed and spluttered, flailing wildly, and Loki rolled onto his back, laughing suddenly at the utter absurdity of the farce that his life had become.

“I despise that!” Ragna exclaimed, still gasping for breath. “It feels like drowning.” Loki continued to chuckle, wondering if this was it, if he had finally tripped over the edge of whatever thin line of sanity he had left. “Why are you laughing?” she cried, and he felt her small fingers wrap around his wrist.

 _Look at me!_ he wanted to say. _Loki Laufeyson, the twice-unwanted prince, sitting on his false father’s throne, a prisoner in his own chambers. His only comfort, a dangerous, demanding, tempting little handmaiden, a source of equal torment. Infinite power within reach, but afraid to harness it. No escape in sight from that which he always desired. Is it not a marvelous jest? The Norns have truly outdone the God of Mischief, this time._

Instead, he kept his reply more vague. “I cannot believe that we are here,” he said, sobering.

“Ah.” She seemed to understand, or to at least accept his response, and she frowned in thought. Loki felt as if he could almost see her mind racing for a diversion. It was interesting to him, how eager she always seemed to pull him from his somber moods. _Why does she do it?_ he wondered.

“You know, sire,” Ragna said after a moment, peering down at him from where she knelt on the bed, “I really should pour a bucket of ice-water on you unexpectedly. Perhaps then you would take my complaints against teleportation more seriously.”

Loki was taken aback, amused by her attempt, but he kept his expression stern. “It would be the last thing you ever did, girl.”

The fingers on his wrist tensed slightly, and he thought for a moment that he may have been a little _too_ menacing, when she replied, “It might be worth it, just to see your expression.”

He really should not banter with her, allow her to tease him this way, but some boundary between them had already crumbled a bit that night, and a part of him was enjoying it too much to stop. Her words were tentative, testing the waters, and he assured himself that he could reestablish an appropriate distance between them in the morning. _Yes, in the morning, I will endeavor to act kingly again,_ he told himself. As for now...

“Is that so?” Loki sat up suddenly, pushing the startled handmaiden back against the pillows with a hand around her neck. “Perhaps, then, I should preemptively strike. Would that not be _wise,_ Lady Ragna?”

“It would be, I suppose,” she whispered, pupils dilating in what Loki assumed was fear. “Though you should remember that my hypothetical actions would be taken in retaliation to yours, in the first place. It would only be fair.”

“And you should remember,” he replied, leaning slightly closer, “that I am _king._ You cannot retaliate against me and expect to escape without punishment.” Ragna’s breathing quickened, and Loki began to worry that he had taken his teasing too far; it was not his intention to actually frighten her.

He released her, and she sighed deeply; he took it as an expression of relief, and he felt a tiny prick of guilt, for he knew that she had only been trying to help his mood when she had goaded him so. _I am the one who is supposed to remain in control,_ he chided himself.

Rolling away, Loki pulled the covers back into place, tucking them over her, as well, after a moment of hesitation. Ragna turned on her side to face him, shifting slightly closer, much to his surprise. Some part of him wanted to thank her for listening, for fussing over him, for taking his mind off of the cold terror of his dreams, but he refused. She never should have been there in the first place, and he would not express gratitude for her presence. He did not _need_ her, after all. He needed no one.

“I am cold,” she suddenly professed, biting her lip.

“You are always cold,” the god scoffed, unsure of what she was getting at. She scooted forward a bit more, and he thought that he could see her blush, even in the dim light. The realization hit him suddenly. “Come here,” he sighed, disturbed by the _rightness_ he felt when she wrapped herself in his arms, anchoring him. Nothing about the girl made sense, least of all her apparent fondness for embracing him, but he was too tired to question it right now, too tired to question _anything._

Her small hand began to rub soothing circles against his back, and he stilled, allowing himself to relax as he buried his face in her hair. _She smells like honey,_ he thought, _and cinnamon._ His lip quirked. _And I smell like wintertime. Of course._ Reminders of his heritage were difficult to escape, but the girl did not seem to mind. She _should_ mind; she was embracing a regicidal Jötunn, a storybook monster...

“Loki?” she whispered, almost as if she could feel his mind working.

“Yes?”

“Go to sleep.”

 

* * *

 

When Loki awoke in the morning, he was surprised to find that neither of them had moved. He was tired, and his muscles ached, but the memories of the nightmare (and, in fact, the entire night) seemed faded and far-away. It was still relatively early, and he was torn between his desire to cancel his morning meetings and remain in bed, and his desire to flee before Ragna awoke and questioned his increasingly erratic behavior.

He chose to flee.

Extricating himself was no small feat, and Loki _may_ have resorted to a small amount of seiðr to keep her from waking as he untangled their limbs. He hesitated by the wardrobe after he had dressed, then pulled out the pair of leggings that he had previously scolded her for stealing; he left them on the counter in the bathing chamber, placing a note on top instructing her to write a list of the things she needed. Hopefully, that would placate her and give them something else to discuss when he returned in the evening, and they could both forget that last night had ever happened.

Materializing the breakfast tray from the kitchens, he quickly checked to ensure that everything was safe, pleased that they had followed his instructions once again to include the sweet buns that he knew she enjoyed. Murders were rare in the capital, especially for those who lived and worked in the palace, and so no one had second-guessed the Allfather’s heightened security after the servant’s body had been found.

The Warriors Three met him first, as he sat upon Hlidskjalf with Gungnir in hand. Loki was surprised that they had any news for him so soon, although he supposed that they had been itching for a new mission, especially now that his brother had gone.

“What have you found?” he boomed, voice echoing through the vast throne room, which he had ordered be kept empty until their business was done.

“Allfather,” began Fandral, always eager to do the talking, “the servant’s name was Gunnar. It sounds as though he was something of a loner; he had few friends here. He had only been in the palace for a few years.”

Loki frowned. “And before that?”

“The steward reports that he said he’d worked in Nastrond for some years, although he did not claim to be from there originally.”

That caught Loki’s attention; he had chosen the region as the homeland of his Einherji persona because it was remote, wild, and somewhat harsh, an outlying state that escaped much notice from the capital city of Asgard. It was also, Loki knew for a _fact,_ the location of several passages to other realms, hidden in the rocky mountain crevasses. “Nastrond, you say?”

“Yes, sire. We would like to go there, with your permission. It is the best lead that we have.”

He eyed the three carefully, weighing his options. “Hogun will go alone,” he decided. “We need to be discreet, and sending all three of you is certain to draw notice.”

Hogun nodded in acceptance. Loki had always appreciated that about him; he was quiet, contemplative, determined. They were all admirable qualities, ones that the others would have done well to learn.

“See if you can find anything out about where this man came from, any ties he may have had. I do not want to cause any more panic; everyone in the palace has been through enough already, and I will not have my people living in fear of assassins sneaking through our halls.”

“Yes, Allfather.”

“What would you have us do in the meantime, sire?” Volstagg asked.

Loki sat back in his throne, contemplating. If he were a conspirator, where in the city would he lurk? “Go about your usual business,” he said. “Spend more time around the taverns and marketplaces, take more strolls down by the docks. Keep your eyes and ears open. It is not as thrilling as battle,” he added, smiling down at them sagely, as Odin might have done, “but at the moment, it is what Asgard needs.”

They left soon after, and Sif was next, coming to make her formal farewell before she returned to Midgard. “I thank you for your service, Lady Sif,” he said as she knelt before him. “Midgard is a young realm, and we must watch over it with care.”

“Of course, Allfather,” she replied. “I am happy to be of assistance.” She smiled. “The mortals grow on you, after a while,” she added. “I begin to understand why Prince Thor is so fond of them.”

The mention of mortals brought back the memory of Ragna recounting her heritage, and Loki quickly shoved it away. “He will return someday, Lady Sif,” he said gently. “To Midgard, if not to Asgard. He is not gone forever.” Hopefully, he thought, if his estranged brother ever _did_ return, it would be after Loki had established himself as the Allfather in his own right. Asgard would prosper, and Thor would be glad to be rid of the throne he had never truly wanted in the first place.

She looked down. “I know, Allfather.”  

“May the Norns watch over you.”

He sighed in relief when she was gone; of all of them, he feared Sif the most, for she had known him far longer than the others, had played with the Thor and Loki as children. Aside from Heimdall, she was the one on Asgard most likely to spot his deception.

Well, he thought ruefully, aside from Ragna. She had found him out easily enough, although he had given her the key himself in the form of the spelled bracelet. Loki remembered the way that she had grown flustered at the mention of the shield-maiden, and his innate desire to soothe her jealousy. It did not make sense to him why she would _be_ jealous, although he supposed that she was bitter over her own isolation. He decided that further investigation may prove entertaining.

 

* * *

 

The meeting with the dwarven emissaries proved fruitless and frustrating, and Loki began to wonder if he should consider them possible suspects in the plot, for despite their courteousness, they certainly did not seem willing to negotiate with him in the slightest. Nevertheless, he was doubtful that they would truly attempt to murder the ruler of the Nine Realms over what were essentially trade negotiations.

Loki held a long public audience that day, partly hoping that he would hear some whispering of grievances that might hint at possible conspirators. He was not so fortunate; the complaints and requests he heard that day were overwhelmingly petty, and he ached to escape. He held up a hand, and the shrill voices of the women currently bickering before him suddenly ceased.

“It would serve you well,” he said, “to remember that you are in the presence of the Allfather.” The two bowed, looking chastened, and he thought he heard a few snickers from the nobles in attendance. “You,” he pointed to the younger of the two, “make your statement.”

The woman’s face was flushed with a mix of embarrassment and indignation. “This woman,” she declared, trying to keep her voice steady, “is the mother of my betrothed. She has threatened to never see him again if he marries me, and has begun looking for another bride.”

“The girl has no dowry!” the older woman exclaimed.

Loki slammed Gungnir on the ground, and the older woman froze. “It is not your turn,” he smiled thinly, thankful that he and Odin both had a bit of a temper. “Continue,” he told the younger one.

“I have no dowry because my father died during the attack on the palace, Allfather. My elder brother inherited everything, and he does not approve of the match. He has rescinded the original offer.”

“Why do you still seek to wed your betrothed, then?”

The girl squared her shoulders. “We are in love,” she said.

Loki sighed, resisting the urge to drop his head into his hands. At least this was better than endless arguments about mining, he told himself. “Where is this man that you love so dearly, and why is he not before me, arguing your case?”

“His mother,” the girl hissed, full of disdain, “convinced one of her commander _friends_ to call him up for service on Vanaheim. They will not allow him to return to Asgard until a new match is arranged.”

“I see.” The Allfather turned to the older woman, who was clearly offended that she had not been allowed to speak first. “You may speak now.”

“Allfather, this girl brings _nothing_ of value to our family! She has no money and no prospects to speak of, and her brother is the one who decided first to contest the arrangement. I am only looking after the best interests of my son.”

“The son you sent to battle to keep him away from his betrothed?” His tone was icy, and he heard a few more titters from the audience. The woman stared at him. “That was not a rhetorical question, my lady. Did you arrange for your son to be sent off-world in order to prevent this marriage?”

“Of course not, sire!” she sputtered.

The Allfather narrowed his eye. “You are lying,” he declared. “Lord Vidar, take this young woman aside and find out the name and location of her betrothed. I want him recalled to Asgard immediately. We shall hear what he has to say about this matter.” He banged Odin’s great staff against the floor again, his words final.

“Thank you, Allfather,” the girl gasped, bursting into tears of relief as the nobleman led her away. The other woman bowed stiffly, retreating from the throne with her head lowered.

His nose wrinkled, displeased by the blatant display of emotion. It was not a task he was well suited for, nor had Odin been. No, these were the cases that normally would have been overseen by Queen Frigga. She had been just, shrewd, and had far more patience for matters of the heart. Loki missed her terribly.

 

* * *

 

When he returned to his chambers that night, he found that he was worryingly eager to see Ragna again, to speak with her. It had only been a week, and he already thought of her as an integral aspect of his day; he knew that he should do something about that, but he found that he did not want to, though the voice in the back of his head grew increasingly concerned.

One of the dwarven ladies had presented him with a very pretty golden ring during dinner, a dainty thing made of delicate vines and leaves, one tiny fire-flower blooming in the center. “It was crafted by the elder sons of Ivaldi,” she told him. “It was commissioned as one of our gifts for the Allmother, before… before the attacks. We wished for you to have it.”

He had thanked her, slightly choked with grief at yet another reminder of the mother he still had yet to properly mourn, and made his excuses to retire soon afterwards. As he made his way to his chambers, he had decided to give the thing to Ragna; he had no use for it, and he had a feeling that Frigga would have approved; she had always liked the girl, had she not?

Ragna was not in her usual spot by the fire, but he could hear her softly singing _The Ballad of Embla’s Daughter,_ and he followed the sound of her voice to the bathing chamber. “Girl?” he called, knocking on the door. “I am returned.”

Her singing cut off abruptly, and he heard a faint splashing sound. For just a brief moment, Loki was sorely tempted to open the door, but he refrained. _You swore to yourself that you would act kingly today,_ he reminded himself. _Keep your distance._

“I will be out in a moment, sire!” she called, and Loki made his way back to his chair, kicking off his boots. He picked up one of the books on the table and perused it as he waited. It was a compilation of common curses and cure-alls, nothing even slightly useful for their quest, although some of the supposed ‘hexes’ he came across amused him.

The handmaiden finally made her appearance, and Loki’s mouth went dry. Her cheeks were flushed from the heat of the bath, her damp hair waved down to her waist, and _damn her,_ she was not wearing the leggings he had so thoughtfully provided.

A droplet of water ran down her neck, and he stared as it trailed its way slowly past the hollow of her throat and disappeared under the neckline of the tunic. “Is everything alright, sire?” she asked, and Loki nodded, tearing his gaze away. Was she doing this to him intentionally, or was she truly that oblivious?

“Is it dinnertime?” Ragna settled down in her chair, looking surprisingly cheerful. “If you do not snap, I confess that I shall be greatly disappointed.”

Loki rolled his eyes and snapped his fingers, and the morning’s tray was replaced. She smiled, and he felt compelled to return the expression, albeit hesitantly. It was almost pleasant, he noted, to come back to… this, whatever _this_ was.

“Do tell me about your day, Allfather,” she said, tone as proper as if she were at a royal tea, rather than lounging in front of the fire in his shirt.

“In due time,” Loki replied. “First, show me that you completed your task for the day.”

“The list? Here it is, although none of it is _truly_ necessary.”

The god picked up the paper from the table, scanning it quickly. “A flute?”

“I have one already,” she quickly elaborated. “But it is in my chambers.”

Loki nodded. Everything she desired was incredibly basic, practical. Pens, paper, more books, the rest of her teas, knitting supplies. “All of these things can be found in your chambers,” he said finally, glancing up from the paper. “Is there nothing else you want?”

Ragna’s brow furrowed. “Like what, your majesty?”

He laughed to himself, certain that he had found the only girl in Asgard who could be given the opportunity to ask the king for anything and request nothing more exciting than what she already had. “New gowns, perhaps?”

“I already have gowns in my chambers, as well,” she replied. “And truly, I do not have much occasion for wearing them now, do I?”

“I suppose not. These are all very innocuous requests, and I will see that you get them.”

The girl’s brow lifted in surprise. “Innocuous? What did you suppose I would request, a crossbow?”

“You never know.” Loki paused, then added, “I have something for you.” As he held out the little ring, he clarified, “One of the emissaries gifted it to the Allfather today; I have no need for a woman’s ring.”

Ragna looked at him in surprise. “It is not enchanted, is it?”

Loki smirked; of _course_ she would ask such a question. “No,” he replied. “Would you like for it to be?”

She blushed slightly, and the god laughed. Really, though, it was not a bad idea. He might as well make the gift practical. Concentrating for a moment, he closed his fist around the ring, and Ragna watched in fascination as a green light flared between his fingers.

“Here,” Loki said, “give me your hand.” As he slid the ring onto her finger, he added, “You should not be so trusting, girl. I could have just cursed the thing.”

“I trust _you.”_ Her expression was open, genuine, and it made something in Loki’s chest twist. It was better not to respond to that, he thought.

“If you are ever in danger, take it off, and I will know. _True_ danger,” he emphasized. “It is not to be used when I am late to dinner.” The mockery in his grin made her look away, and Loki reluctantly set her fingers free.

As she ate dinner and Loki snacked, he told her about his meeting with the Warriors Three. Ragna listened carefully, but did not say much; he supposed that the memory of her near-assassination was still too fresh for her to be eager to discuss any of the details surrounding it. He made certain to mention that Sif had departed for Midgard once again, curious to see her reaction; she kept her expression carefully blank.

Finally, he came around to recounting the betrothal dispute. “These are the type of trivial complaints that constantly occupy the Allfather’s time,” he griped.

“It is not trivial to the young couple in love,” Ragna replied, and he could tell by the set of her jaw that she was prepared to argue.

 _Love._ Loki scoffed. “This is not one of your elven storybooks, Lady Ragna. The families had a contract, and it was broken. It is a legal matter, nothing more.”

“Then why did you order for the soldier to be summoned to the palace?” she retorted.

“I will not have military assignments being made based on the whims of overbearing mothers. That alone is an issue worth investigating.”

Ragna frowned at him for a moment, fidgeting with her ring. “That is not entirely true, though, is it? I believe you know that it is wrong for their families to keep them apart, if they truly wish to be together.”

He leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. So, the little handmaiden thought that she knew him, did she? “Let me ask you this, my lady,” he said. “In that pretty ballad you were singing earlier, what happens to the lovers, in the end?”

Glaring a bit, for she clearly knew where he was going with his inquiry, she muttered, “They both perish.”

“And if you require a more _tangible_ example, consider my brother: Thor, Odin’s favorite, warned _repeatedly_ to stay away from the little Midgardian who caught his eye. Look at what his persistence cost him, what it cost _all_ of Asgard. What do you suppose the moral is?”

“I do not know, Allfather,” she snapped, her tone a bit more waspish than he had expected. “Do not mix with mortals?”

 _Ah._ Had he forgotten so easily that she was the descendant of such a love-match? That annoying feeling of guilt, which had begun to make an appearance with increasing frequency, pricked at him, but Loki was not willing to back down. “I was actually looking for something closer to: _decisions should be made with the head, not the heart.”_

“I see,” she said stiffly, picking up her mug of hot soup. “I also disagree.”

“Of course you do.”

Ragna continued to frown at her soup, and the minutes passed by in an uncomfortable silence. Loki finally sighed in defeat. “I will see what the soldier has to say before I make any decisions. Is this acceptable, O Patron of Star-Crossed Lovers?”

Her expression lifted in a heartbeat, and Loki thought that he might detect the faintest hint of a smirk. _Was she truly_ pouting _to get her way?_ he wondered, caught somewhere between feeling inscenced and impressed that it had worked on him. “It is quite acceptable, Allfather,” she smiled sweetly. “A very wise course of action, I would say.” She carefully selected a tart from the tray and held it out to him, a peace offering.

Loki snorted, but accepted it. It was in that moment that he began to fear that he was truly lost.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, lovely people! A subtitle for this lengthy chapter: 'A Night and a Day in the Mind of Loki.' Is he starting to soften? Is he completely losing it? Will he ever figure out how Ragna feels? ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> (P.S. Please forgive any typos/formatting weirdness I may have missed. I'm home for the holidays, and the internet is less than ideal).


	16. The Battle of the Bath

For all that the previous week had been the most uncertain of her life, Ragna found that the following week settled into a sort of predictable routine; that is, as predictable as things could get when sharing chambers with the eternally-tempestuous God of Mischief. Loki seemed doggedly determined to avoid mentioning his dream of murdering her and his ensuing softness, and he tiptoed around most potential arguments. In fact, it was _almost_ possible to forget that she was his prisoner, and that she really did not have any hopes of a future.

It _felt_ like something companionable was building between them, quietly, gently. Ragna was no fool, and she knew better than to assume that this hinted at some happier outcome for her and the king, but it did lend her a sense of peace, of comfort. Every day, Loki would rise around dawn and leave her, sometimes sighing in what she could only interpret as reluctance. She would while away her day reading or knitting or playing her flute, and while she still attempted to research the conspiracy, the king had also provided her with a thick stack of books from Midgard. He made no explanation of the choice, and grateful for the variety, she did not question it.

 

* * *

 

When Loki would return in the evenings, they would sit by the fire and talk, and he told her more and more of the business of running the Realm Eternal; it seemed to baffle him that she actually enjoyed listening to him complain about the subjects that he was forced to deal with during his public audiences. In truth, Ragna found it terribly entertaining to imagine Loki’s sour expression as he listened to people arguing over sheep and gambling disputes and marriage contracts.

She tried to keep from pushing him to make any specific decisions regarding the petitioners, still surprised that her sulking had worked on him the first time around. Ragna did not think it wise to overplay her hand, and she knew that Loki was not likely to give in again so easily.

“They came before me again today,” he announced one evening, and from the way that he stormed into the room, Ragna could tell that he was in a mood.

“Who, sire?”

“That blasted girl and her intended mother-in-law, along with the betrothed and both of their _entire extended families.”_

Stifling a laugh at his indignation, for she knew that he would not take it well, Ragna watched as the king fell onto the couch with a huff. “What happened?”

Loki looked at her suspiciously, and she feared that he had heard the entertainment in her tone. “The girl cried,” he said, bemused. “Then the soldier began crying. Then one of the man’s cousins professed his intention to duel the girl’s brother. The Einherjar had to step in after that. It was a nightmare.”

“What in the Nine did you say to garner such a reaction?” she gasped.

“Nothing!” he cried. “This was all before I began to speak. If I had not had Gungnir in hand to intimidate them into silence, I am sure they would be squabbling still.”

The mental image he conjured was too much for her to handle, and Ragna burst into laughter. For a moment, Loki glared at her, but then his expression cracked and the corner of his mouth turned upwards in the barest hint of a smirk. “You would not find it so amusing, my lady, if you had to deal with such atrocious spectacles.”

“Tell me more, please,” she choked out, trying to regain her composure.

“I did as you wished and asked the man to profess his _feelings_ , if he had any. He declared that the girl was the light of his life, that he would never love again, that he would not mind being sent into the direst missions, _if only_ he had her waiting for him at home.” He rolled his eyes, waving a hand dismissively. “The girl’s brother asserted that, as the new head of the family, it was now his right to decide who his sister wed. He clearly had someone specific in mind for her. Then, _of course,_ the young couple informed me that they would rather live in rags than to be kept apart. It was exceedingly melodramatic.”

“What did you decide?”

He seemed reluctant to answer. “I informed the brother that the contract was not his to break without consequence, but that he was free to do so if he was willing to pay a substantial fine to the girl’s betrothed, since the dowry was, according to the initial binding agreement, set to go directly to the groom and not his family estate. Furthermore, I told the soldier that I would station him elsewhere if he wished to cut ties with his family and support the two of them on his pension alone.”

“You did?” Ragna stared at him in surprise, and the king’s discomfort visibly increased.

“Yes, that was my final decision.”

_“Aha!”_ she exclaimed as she sat up in her chair, unable to contain her triumph, “Who is the Patron of Star-Crossed Lovers now, God of Mischief?”

“It was a logical and legally-appropriate ruling,” he muttered, clearly rankled.

“Of course, sire,” she soothed, and then she had distracted him with talk of dinner, happy in the knowledge that he had done what was right, regardless of his motivations.

 

* * *

 

When the evenings grew late, they would retire to bed, and this was the single greatest source of Ragna’s distress, for she simply _felt_ too much when Loki held her close. He had been exceptionally careful to keep his distance during his waking hours, ever since he had pinned her to the bed and threatened to preemptively punish her for pouring water on his head. However, once they were under the covers, he did not seem to object to her embrace; in fact, he seemed rather eager to reciprocate. It was frustrating, and a small, reckless part of her wanted to carry out her original threat, just to see what he would do.

And he _had_ carried her to bed again, several times.

There were moments when Ragna considered the idea that Loki may find her appealing, but they were few and far between. His eyes would linger on her legs, if they were bare, or on her lips, and heat would course like molten metal through her veins. She would wake in the middle of the night and find his hand possessively wrapped around her hip, or tangled in her hair, and the urge to simply move _closer_ to him would become almost overwhelming.

It was almost disappointing when Loki brought in a small trunk of gowns from her chambers, along with providing more of his leggings. As much as it had embarrassed her to parade around in his shirt in the beginning, Ragna had come to imagine that it was something special that they shared, a sort of show of familiarity. Perhaps it was not so for him; perhaps he was simply used to having half-naked women roaming about his rooms. The thought was a bitter one, and she tried not to dwell on it.

Begrudgingly, she began to occasionally wear some of her old dresses during the day, for at least getting dressed up gave her something to do, but she still changed back into one of his tunics every night. Something in her craved his approval, although she told herself again and again that what she hoped for was simply a foolish, girlish daydream. The king was being courteous and keeping her imprisoned in the gentlest way possible, now that he did not believe her to be an active threat. That was all, she told herself: nothing more, nothing less.

 

* * *

 

A week had gone by at this relatively steady pace, and Ragna had nearly finished all of her books from Midgard, and had managed to dig through quite a few of the texts on memory magic, as well. Loki had brought no news of anything related to the plot, and worry was beginning to nag at her. By now, the conspirators had to know that their assassin had been killed; were they laying low out of fear, or were they planning something more direct?

While she knew that Loki was incredibly powerful, especially now that he was Allfather, she could not help but wonder what would happen if his wards _did_ fail. There was no doubt that the king would be able to defend himself in a struggle, but Ragna had far less confidence in her own combat abilities. If assassins did manage to find their way into the Allfather’s chambers, she would have to fight, or die; there would be nowhere to flee.

Perhaps that is why, when she awoke suddenly from a late-morning nap by the fireplace to the sound of rustling, Ragna’s mind immediately went on high alert. She sat up quietly, straining to listen. The sound, whatever it was, came from the antechamber or somewhere beyond; that left three possibilities - the bedchamber, the bath, or Loki’s study. Biting her lip, Ragna glanced nervously around the room. It was a shame that Loki still did not trust her enough to leave any weapons laying about.

Carefully, she made her way around the back of the couch and retrieved her flute; it was around two feet long, and she hoped that the metal would at least deliver a bruise to anyone who tried to attack her. Although she was not prepared to use it quite yet, she twisted the ring on her finger, loosening it in case she needed to drop it quickly. It would be humiliating to call Loki to come rushing to save her, only to find out that she had simply left the tap in the bath running.

Ragna crept forward slowly, thankful that her bare feet made little sound as she crossed the massive room toward the antechamber. She shivered from a mix of cold and fear; perhaps today would have been a good day to wear more clothing; how shameful it would be, she thought, to die wearing nothing more than a shirt.

When she finally reached the small hallway, the bedroom door stood ajar, exactly as she had left it. She pushed it open, eyes scanning the room to ensure that it was still empty. The study was next, but she discovered that the door was locked, as always. That left the bathing chamber. Pressing her ear to the door, Ragna tried to make out any incriminating sounds, but only heard a faint splashing. _Well,_ she told herself, _it is better to die with knowledge than to live with doubts._

The family motto seemed a bit less encouraging when there was actually a possibility that assassins were teleporting in on the other side of the door, and Ragna hefted her flute with both hands, holding it like a club. Taking a breath to brace herself, she kicked the door wide, ready to attack.

Several things happened at once. She met the king’s shocked eyes, and Loki’s pale skin turned the slightest shade of pink. The water in the bath rippled into an opaque, glassy mirror, and through the steam filling the room, Ragna might have almost sworn that she could make out embarrassment in his expression. If not, she was _certainly_ embarrassed enough for the two of them.

“Lady Ragna,” he finally managed to say, the forced politeness of his tone seeming exceptionally out of place as he sat chest-deep in the pool. “What is the meaning of this?”

For a moment, she could only gape, but she lowered her instrument from attack position. “I woke up suddenly, and I heard something moving about,” she said, faltering slightly under his glare. “I feared that perhaps another assassin had discovered me…”  Her words trailed off, and the king looked somewhat exasperated.

“You heard _me_ moving about, girl. These are _my_ chambers, are they not?”

“But you are never back this early!” Ragna exclaimed.

“It has been a particularly challenging morning. I wished to seek out some peace and quiet.”

The last bit was aimed at her, she knew, but she was overtaken by curiosity to know what could have exhausted the Allfather so early in the day. “What happened, sire?”

Loki squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, seeming to have some sort of internal debate with himself. “Close the door,” he said at last, sinking slightly lower into the water. “You are letting the warmth escape.”

Ragna hesitated. Did he mean for her to leave, or for her to stay? She decided to risk staying, and she stepped across the threshold, pushing the door closed behind her. “May I join you?” she asked belatedly.

The god rolled his eyes. “Do I have a choice?” he muttered. Ragna sat down awkwardly on the ledge next to the pool, trying to keep her tunic from pulling up and revealing too much, and placed her flute beside her. Loki was studying her carefully. “I am dying to know what your plan was, if there was an actual murderer to be found in this room.”

“I hoped to use the element of surprise to my advantage,” she said, pantomiming bringing the flute down in a decisive blow.

“Why did you not simply summon me, then, if you thought that your life may be in danger?”

“I first needed to ascertain that there was an actual threat, of course.” She thought that she saw Loki’s jaw clench slightly. Was he _angry_ with her? “You told me that the ring is only for dire emergencies,” she reminded him.

“I would prefer for you to summon me for false alarms than for you to attempt to take on assassins with a _wind instrument,”_ Loki snapped. _“Norns,_ Ragna, I have never met a creature who managed to simultaneously be so clever and so foolish.”

She colored at the chastisement, and Loki sighed, leaning his head back against the ledge. He regarded her under hooded lids. “You may get in the water, if you wish,” he said. “I do not intend to leave anytime soon, and I am certain that you plan to stay and pester me, regardless.”

Eyes wide, Ragna began to protest, but he cut her off. “You can leave the tunic on, girl. I simply have no desire to stare up at you for the next hour.”

_Says the man who loves to tower over everyone else,_ Ragna thought irately, but she slid her legs over the ledge and slipped into the water. Her irritation faded almost immediately at the warm, soothing sensation, and she sighed in contentment.

“On Midgard,” he suddenly said, “they have suits that they wear to go into the water, at least when they are in public.”

It surprised her to hear him mention the realm so casually, especially given his less-than-positive history there. “That seems like a smart idea. Gowns are not ideal for swimming, in case you were unaware. In fact, I do not believe that I have been swimming since I was a child.”

“I suppose there were few opportunities in Ringsfjord.”

“There are quite a few beautiful lakes there, you know. Especially during the warmer seasons, they would be perfect for swimming. It is not very ladylike, unfortunately.” Ragna skimmed her hand against the surface of the water, marvelling at the way it rippled like mercury. “How did you do this so quickly?”

“It is incredibly simple seiðr,” Loki scoffed. “Hardly even a true illusion.” He smirked slightly. “Should I change it back?”

“No,” she replied quickly, blushing.

He laughed softly. “How about this, then?” The surface of the pool suddenly shimmered like liquid gold, and Ragna gasped.

“It is beautiful,” she whispered.

“You are far too easily impressed.”

“Perhaps.” Trailing her fingers through the shining surface of the water, Ragna glanced up, daring to return his gaze through the steam. “How did you slip away from your duties today?”

“Odin is old,” Loki said dismissively. “Everyone is terrified that if the Allfather is overtaxed, he will fall back into the Odinsleep, so no one dares to question when he needs time to rest and recover. It works to my advantage.”

“I see. And why did you feel the need to use that advantage today, sire?”

His eyes narrowed slightly. “You have a tendency to call me ‘sire’ when you are being intentionally nosy or demanding,” he told her. “Do not think that it has escaped my notice.”

“If it did not work, I would not do so,” Ragna replied blithely, and she saw a flash of a smirk cross his features, quickly hidden.

“Hogun returned this morning. He brought some interesting news of our poisoner. Apparently the man worked for several barely-noble and merchant families in Nastrond. Before that, he came from Ringsfjord.”

“Ringsfjord?” Ragna looked at him in alarm.

“It may be a coincidence, or it may be that is why they knew of you in the first place. I am not certain.”

“What else did he find?”

“This Gunnar was not a very well-liked man. Hogun could find very few people who had much to say about him, either positive or negative. It seems that he was something of a nobody. No known family ties, no friends.”

“No motivation,” she added, her mind racing, “other than the money, I suppose.”

“It appears that way, but I am not so certain. The outlying states have been experiencing more unrest in recent years, including reported raids from off-world. Odin did not give much credence to these accounts, but I am not prepared to dismiss them so easily.”

“You are correct,” Ragna said, frowning. “One of my brothers wrote to me shortly after I came to court, saying that one of the villages not far from us had been attacked by some unknown party. The locals claimed that it must have been Frost Giants, but there was no evidence. And there have been no cases of a Jötunn being sighted in Asgard since…” She trailed off, feeling uncomfortable.

“Since I led them into the palace during Thor’s coronation.” He looked at her as if he was daring her to judge him. “You may say it,” he added. “I do not regret my actions.”

She cleared her throat. “Yes, well, in any case, there has been growing fear and tension in the borderlands, whatever the source may be. I do not necessarily believe that these attacks _are_ from off-world. Asgard has plenty of criminals of its own. Why would the Jötnar send men to attack simple farming villages?”

“It could be the actions of a few disgruntled radicals, rather than an officially sanctioned move.”

Ragna’s brow creased. “That seems far-fetched,” she said. “Who rules Jotunheim now, Loki? It is not as if they send delegates to the palace any longer.”

The king’s face tightened, and she feared that she had misstepped. “Queen Fárbauti,” he replied stiffly. “Laufey’s widow.”

Her heart pounded, and Ragna froze. _Is that his birth-mother?_ she wondered, instantly regretting her line of questioning. _She must be. Loki Laufeyson, Prince of Jotunheim._

“They would stand to gain little by such actions,” Loki continued. “But Frost Giants are petty creatures, and I do not doubt that they would enjoy making Asgard suffer as much as possible, even if they do not have the military strength to pursue war.”

She was desperate to change the direction of the conversation, feeling the tension in the room thicken considerably, despite Loki’s assurance that he had no regrets in regards to slaying his birth-father. “How would off-world beings even get to Asgard?”

Loki shrugged, and Ragna was momentarily distracted by the way the golden water slid down his pale chest as he sat up a bit straighter. “This realm, like all others, is littered with passages to other worlds. I make frequent use of them, although they are exceptionally difficult for most beings to locate and navigate. Heimdall is busy watching the cosmos for larger threats; it is not improbable for him to miss small bands of raiders popping in and out of unimportant outlying towns.”

“I take issue with your assessment that our outlying towns are unimportant.”

“I am not surprised. Still, you must admit that from a strategic standpoint, it would be a waste to continually attempt to monitor them all and hope that we may eventually detect something.”

He was correct. “I suppose,” she conceded. “But even if this Gunnar was inspired by some sort of political unrest, I do not believe that the Jötnar would go so far as to try to attack the Allfather’s mind, and then hire an Asgardian to poison me when the plan failed. It does not seem as… direct as I would expect. And I did not think that they practiced seiðr, either.”

“They rely on elemental magic,” Loki said. “Of course, I am the exception. I utilize both.” He raised a hand from the water, and ice started to form around his fingertips as he studied them thoughtfully, his eyes taking a slight reddish tinge. It felt like a strangely personal moment, and Ragna was transfixed.

He noticed that she was staring at him, and his hand dropped. “It would be much easier to investigate if Odin and I had fewer enemies,” he said, smiling ruefully. “There are innumerable beings who would like to see either of us dead.”

“It is the danger of being the King of the Nine Realms,” she ventured. “The power of the Allfather is a beacon, drawing challengers near.”

“Yes. The subject of challengers brings me to the other half of my account,” he said, a slight gleam in his eyes. “I went to the training yards as Einar Fritjofson to spar this morning at dawn, in an effort to keep abreast of the soldiers’ gossip. You will never guess who I spied there.”

“Who, sire?”

“Your librarian lord, Hakon Jarlsson. I am shocked that he even remembers how to wield a weapon.”

Ragna frowned at his tone, somewhat baffled by his train of thought. “Does it bother you, my king, for your citizens to train at combat?”

He snorted. “I question his motives.”

“What could his motives possibly be?” she asked, exasperated, before suddenly remembering the possessive way Loki had clutched her to his side during the ball. _Oh._

“Perhaps the Allfather has gained a new mortal enemy, in sending you away to Vanaheim.”

_“Perhaps_ Hakon simply has more free time, or he has been shaken by the recent murder near the palace, or a million other things,” Ragna exclaimed, rising out of the water slightly, irritated by his mocking tone. _“You_ are the one acting as if you are jealous!”

There was something else in his expression now, as if he had only just realized that she was in the bath with him, barely clothed. His eyes flickered down, and Ragna felt one of those moments of heat flood through her; it seemed especially suitable, she thought wryly, as she appeared to be floating in molten gold.

Loki tore his gaze away from her chest and smiled at her thinly. “Ragna, why would I ever be jealous?”

The pleasant heat that his stare had inspired was instantly replaced by ire; he was _insufferable._ “I am leaving,” she declared, and turned to scramble out of the pool, wishing that she was more graceful. Ragna knew that she was giving him a good view of her bottom as she wiggled over the ledge, but she was currently too incensed to care. Snatching up her flute, she marched to the door.

“I apologize for disturbing you, Your Majesty,” she snapped, executing a perfect mock curtsy despite the sopping, uncomfortably-clingy fabric of the tunic. Loki’s eyes were wide with surprise, and she felt a brief moment of satisfaction as she turned and strode out the door, pulling it firmly shut behind her.

 

* * *

 

It was nearly half an hour before Loki emerged from the bath, and Ragna had felt her embarrassment increase exponentially with every passing moment. Why had she stormed out like that? Of course he was not _actually_ jealous, and he certainly would never admit it, even if he was. Even worse, she had realized once she marched into the bedchamber to change that the wet tunic was _far_ more revealing than she had realized. Why had she even gotten in the water with him in the first place? She was mortified, and frankly, she was surprised that he had not stormed out after her, chastising her for her impudence.

After changing into a long, comfortable gown, Ragna settled down by the hearth to dry her hair and anxiously wait, feeling exceptionally cold after leaving the warmth of the bath so suddenly. When Loki did finally appear, he was wearing a shirt much like the one she had just discarded, his hair damp and slightly wild. He stopped a few feet from the hearth, staring down at her with an indecipherable expression.

“I am sorry,” she blurted. “I did not mean to be disrespectful.”

Loki let out a sharp breath that sounded suspiciously similar to a laugh. “Yes, you did. I would expect nothing less. You, little girl, never seem to quite understand when you are courting danger.”

Frowning up at the king, Ragna struggled to think of something to say; his gaze was piercing, and it unsettled her. “Lunch?” she finally ventured.

This time, he truly did laugh, the tension of the moment broken. “Lunch,” he agreed, and his hand rested on her hair for just a fraction of a moment before he moved to the couch. “And then I want you to play me a song on that fearsome weapon of yours.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cheers for bathtime!


	17. The Heat of the Fire

Loki had always been very good at unravelling the motivations of others; it was one of the reasons he was so proficient at manipulation and deceit. The little handmaiden, however, was becoming a special case. For the life of him, Loki could not understand what the girl’s endgame was. Originally, of course, he had suspected her of treason, but he had decided rather quickly that such a conspiracy was not in her nature. Then, he had attributed her continued compliance with sheer survival instinct; despite the cozy sort of arrangement they  had arrived at, she _was_ still a prisoner. He knew that she still feared him, despite her frequent displays of boldness. She would be a fool not to, and while some part of him was pleased that she knew her place, another part of him felt guilty.

The wanting he felt for her was an increasingly painful, almost-tangible thing, and he was finding it more and more challenging to ignore. Loki was not a noble man by any means, but the shred of decency he still had left demanded for him to stay away from Lady Ragna. The darker part of him, however, whispered that taking her would be so satisfying, so _easy;_ he was strong, and she was weak, and the natural order of things was for the strong to take and the weak to give. Then he would remember her bright, trusting eyes, and his resolve would strengthen.

To this end, he had endeavored to make their arrangement more seemly. He brought her actual clothing to wear, and other things to occupy her time. When he returned in the evenings, he made certain that they discussed subjects other than the cause of her imprisonment, hoping that it would make her feel more like a handmaiden, and less like a captive. Ragna was clever, which he had already known, and it was refreshing to hear what she had to say about the day-to-day workings of Asgard, although he could not quite understand why she cared to hear him complain. He supposed that she was starved for interaction.

The sleeping situation was the one concession that Loki had allowed himself; he had no desire for the dreams of the Mad Titan and the Other to return, and he was certain that his own self-control was strong enough to resist any inappropriate temptations. But _Norns,_ how Ragna tested him. Even if she did wear her gowns sometimes during the day, she always made certain to change back before they went to bed, as if she _knew_ that waking up with her bare legs wrapped around him drove him mad. He was beginning to grow suspicious that it was intentional, her subtle way of punishing him for imprisoning her.

As demure and bashful as she pretended to be during the day, Loki had come to realize that Ragna was exceptionally handsy during the night. A few days after the bath-intruder incident, he awoke in the middle of the night to find her face buried against his neck, fingers digging into his back. _“Loki,”_ she sighed blissfully, and he had instantly found himself incredibly awake and incredibly aroused. She was dreaming of him, then. Loki stared into space for a moment, hesitating, but the temptation was too great; he had to _see._

Pressing a hand to the crown of her head, Loki closed his eyes and slipped into her mind. When he opened them, he found himself in one of the more-obscure sections of the library. He couldn’t be bothered to pay attention to which one, because he currently held Ragna pinned against one of the bookcases, her legs wrapped firmly around his waist. His fingers were occupied with frantically unlacing the bodice of her dress, and her eyes, dark with need, watched his face with a sort of rapt attention.

Gasping for breath, Loki retreated, woefully unprepared for the realism of her dreamscape. He jostled her slightly as he tried to put space between them, and Ragna pulled back, blinking up at him sleepily. “Everything is fine,” he soothed, voice rough. The last thing he needed now was for her to stare up at him with those welcoming blue eyes of hers. His self-control was dangerously frayed as it was.

She made a contented sort of hum and rolled away, and Loki tore himself from the bed and practically ran to the bathing chamber, which was quickly becoming something of a sanctuary when his frustration became too great. In what he considered a moment of weakness, he allowed himself to imagine Ragna’s dream through to its conclusion; rather than relief, he felt shame and irritation, for these moments of weakness were becoming far too frequent.

_Does it even matter if she only wants you because you have isolated her from all others?_ something in him whispered. _Does it matter that she is a prisoner under your control? Her very survival depends on you. She would not refuse._ No, he did not think that she would refuse. In fact, he thought suddenly, easily retreating to the suspiciousness that was so inherent to his being, perhaps _this_ was the girl’s endgame, to use his desire for her in an attempt to win her freedom, or to have power over the King of the Nine Realms.

It was the only explanation that made any sense to Loki; why else would she prance around the way that she did, why else would she taunt and tease him so? And even worse, he chastised himself, _if_ that were the case, he was allowing it to work; there was no doubt that the little handmaiden was getting dangerously close to whatever was left of Loki’s heart.

No, he quickly assured himself, this was a matter of lust and power; _hearts_ and _feelings_ certainly had no place in Loki’s reign, or his life. He would not be so easily swayed. Whatever Ragna’s motivation may ultimately be, he would remain wary, and he would maintain his distance.

 

* * *

 

A few more days passed in the same companionable manner, and despite Loki’s new suspicions, Ragna did nothing out of the ordinary. As a prince, he had been the object of plenty of flirtations from court women, and she reminded him of _none_ of them. In fact, despite the pretty sort of gracefulness that the centuries had bestowed upon her, she still often reminded him of the awkward child that he had played with in his youth. She would get cross with him and let her temper show, or attempt to subtly boss him around, and she made him laugh- genuine laughter, not the polite sort that was used in most conversations with the nobility. His irritation continued to brew.

The Warriors Three had brought back no recent news of the conspiracy, and negotiations with the dwarves had actually begun to improve. There was little of dire importance to occupy his mind other than Ragna, and occupy it she did. When he awoke from a dream of his own featuring Ragna in a soaking wet, sheer tunic, he knew that he had to try _something_ before he lost his mind. 

The night was still relatively young, especially in regards to the type of entertainment Loki sought, and he slipped into his Einherji form, making his way from the palace and down to the taverns. It was much easier to manage when he was not maintaining another illusion; easier too, he mused, now that he was actually able to _sleep._ Guilt twinged in his chest, for the source of his solace was currently in his bed alone, abandoned. He told himself that it did not matter. It wasn’t as if he _belonged_ to her.

There were still many citizens and soldiers out and about, even at this hour, and the tavern that he slipped into was still buzzing with activity. It was off of the main streets and a bit seedy, and he had been there many times before, though never with this face. He settled into a seat at a rickety table near the wall and nursed his mead, listening to the chatter surrounding him, wondering how much he would have to drink to be able to forget that he was Loki Laufeyson, possibly the most hated man in the Nine Realms.

Some men were playing dice nearby, and Loki recognized the smug face of an Einherji he did not care for. He flicked a finger against his mug and smiled as he heard the man cursing loudly. It would be entertaining to see how long it took for him to realize that his luck for the night had run dry.

The god kept his expression pleasant and inviting, though it took some effort; Einar was a handsome young soldier, he knew, and perfect bait for any women looking for an easy target. He did not have to wait long. A pretty strawberry-blonde slid into the seat beside him with practiced ease, boldly resting her hand on his knee. “Hello, soldier,” she purred. “How are you faring this evening?”

Loki grinned. “Better, now that you are here.”

The woman giggled predictably at the compliment, and Loki took a moment to appraise her. There was certainly nothing _domestic_ or frail about her; she was tall, perfectly manicured, and oozed confidence, a stark contrast to the girl that he was currently trying desperately to forget.

“We do not receive many men of your… caliber here, my lord,” she told him, sliding closer to whisper in his ear. “I had to fight the other girls for a chance at you.” The scent of her floral perfume slid over him as she raised a hand to his face, and while it was not unpleasant, it also was not _right,_ it wasn’t what he _wanted,_ and a touch of something like anxiety began to buzz around the edges of his mind. He wanted honey and cinnamon.

“To the victor belong the spoils,” he said, smiling easily, his voice betraying no hint of the chaos that was stirring inside. He downed the rest of his drink, and the woman giggled again, before taking his hand and guiding him upstairs, her long skirt swishing behind her.

The chamber that she pulled him into was small and dark, the ideal setting for an illicit tryst. Pressing him back against the wall with a coy smile, the woman peppered kisses along his jawline, reaching between them to unbutton his coat. Loki sighed and closed his eyes and tried to stop thinking, but the drink had not been strong enough, or perhaps _he_ was not strong enough, and he could not.

“Shall I?” she whispered, and he glanced down to find that her hands were now toying with the front laces of her bodice. He nodded, but as he watched her smoothly loosen the fastenings, all he could picture was Ragna’s dream of the library, and his own frantic fumblings to free her from her gown. It had been a terrible mistake to intrude in her mind, he thought, groaning in irritation.

“Apologies,” he said suddenly, “You are lovely, madam, but-”

The woman stopped and eyed him shrewdly. “Troubles with your wife?” she asked, glancing down to his hand to check for a ring. “Or mistress, perhaps? I do not judge.”

Loki swallowed uncomfortably. “I have neither.”

“Ah, but there _is_ one that you want, isn’t there?” He said nothing, and she sighed and moved to sit on the small bed. “The handsome ones are always taken,” she muttered. “You know, many men seek out the arms of one woman to forget about another. It is not uncommon, and I do not mind. I can send for one of the other girls, if I look too similar.” Cocking her head thoughtfully, she added, “Or too dissimilar.”

He shuddered at the idea of that: finding some facsimile of Ragna in the taverns or brothels in an attempt to satiate his cravings, while he left the real thing alone and trapped in his chambers. Loki doubted that it would work, in any case. _She has ruined me,_ he thought miserably. “No,” he replied. “While I appreciate your accommodating attitude, I should be off, but I am happy to compensate you for your time.”

The blonde waved him off, patting her hair into place carefully. “No need. But if you change your mind, my lord, you know where to find me.”

 

* * *

 

Loki stalked through the streets for some time after that, too inscensed to return to the palace. He cursed the moment that he had first taken notice of her, flitting about suspiciously in the throne room. It had been only three weeks, and she already wielded this power over him, holding him hostage to his lust. How much more of this was he supposed to endure? He was so _tired_ of being noble, of trying to live up to the grand expectations of Odin and the position of Allfather. In all honesty, a small part of him was tired of all of the _lies;_ he missed the days when he was the just the mischievous younger prince, with a family he’d _thought_ he belonged to and no cosmic responsibilities bearing down upon him.

If Odin had not foolishly decided to name Thor king, _Prince_ Loki would have still been free to wander around the palace when Lady Ragna was selected to be one of the Queen’s handmaidens. _Prince_ Loki might have come across her one day in the library, finding her as pretty and enchanting as ever. He might have asked her name, and then she would have shyly informed him that that she was Ragna, the Ragna from his childhood, all grown-up and ladylike. He would have been free to steal a kiss, there among the stacks of ancient texts, would have been free to ask her to dance while wearing his own face. He would have been free to pursue her with no qualms; it would have been just another court affair, nothing dire, nothing world-changing.

But this… this _was_ dire; this had the potential to _be_ world-changing, for Loki was now Allfather, and he could not afford any mistakes. It had become more than a matter of his hard-won throne and his life; if he failed to prepare the Nine Realms for war, then Thanos would destroy it all. No one else understood the threat, but _he_ did, and he would not allow distraction to lead him to failure. And Ragna… she was a distraction. She was a weakness.

It was easy to be rational and logical about the girl when they were apart, but when he finally stormed back into his chambers and saw her stretched out on the couch with her nose in a book, his resolve began to crumble. _Little witch,_ he thought angrily. _Why do you do this to me?_

“What are you doing out of bed?” he asked waspishly, tugging off his coat and boots, glad that it gave him something to do, even though seiðr would have been quicker.

She lowered the book, peering at him with a quirked brow. “I could not sleep, sire. I am assuming that you could not, either.”

Loki glared at her. Did she know, somehow, where he had gone? “I needed to sort something out,” he replied vaguely.

“Ah, I see. ‘ _Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.’”_ Seeing his expression, Ragna gestured to the pile of books on the table. “It is from one of the Midgardian stories you brought me. I like this Shakespeare fellow,” she added, holding up her current selection. “This one is a romance. I do not predict that it will end well.”

“Do they ever?” he muttered under his breath.

“What was that, sire?”

“Nothing.” He did not wish to start that particular argument again, especially at the moment. “How long have you been awake?”

“Since you left.”

Loki frowned and hesitated as he tried to decide where to go. He _should_ proceed to his study immediately and bar the door, but the allure of his temptress was powerful.

The handmaiden scooted upright and patted the spot beside her on the couch, smiling at him disarmingly with those blue eyes that he was beginning to hate for how they ensnared him. “Come and sit, sire,” she said. “I shall tell you about the stories that I have been reading, and I am sure that all of these mortal escapades will put you right to sleep.”

_Look at her,_ he thought irately, _acting as if everything about this is normal._ Loki considered unleashing his temper, but he refrained; firstly, because it would only put proof to the notion that she had some influence on his behavior, and secondly, because he felt a hint of guilt for leaving her in the first place.

He stiffly took a seat. Ragna must have noticed, for her smile faltered slightly, and Loki was horrified to feel his guilt increase. “Go on,” he told her, not trusting himself to say anything else.

“Is everything alright, sire? Oh, were you out spying? You are dressed differently than usual.”

_Always observant._ “No,” he replied, coloring slightly. “I just needed to get out of the palace.”

The girl’s lip quirked. “There are worse places to be a prisoner.”

How audacious she was becoming, Loki thought, to throw his own words back at him. He stared into the fire. “Yes, I can think of a few.”

“Tell me about them.”

Startled, Loki turned to regard her again. “Tell you about what, girl?”

“The places you have been a prisoner. You seem very well-versed in the subject, while I am a mere novice. Only if you would like to, of course,” she hastily added.

There was a pregnant pause, and Loki faced a difficult choice: did he put her in her place, once and for all, as he had intended, or continue on as usual, pretending that Ragna was not driving him mad? So caught up in his own thoughts was he, that he started slightly when he felt a soft pressure on his hand. Ragna had leaned forward slightly, a look of concern in her eyes as she gently squeezed his cold fingers. “It is alright,” she said. “You do not have to tell me; I did not mean to make you relive painful memories.”

Glancing down at the small hand resting on his own, Loki surrendered yet another battle with himself. “Have you been to the dungeons in the palace before?” he asked.

“No, sire. I tried, once.”

He looked at her sharply. “When?”

“After you were imprisoned,” Ragna replied, turning pink. “The Allmother sent me to see how strictly your visitation was being monitored.”

It hurt, as always, to think of his mother, but he could not help but smile at the thought of her sending her handmaidens out like spies. How very like Frigga. “Odin did not even allow her to visit me in the flesh.”

“In fairness, sire, Queen Frigga would have likely helped you to escape, if he had.”

“Yes.” Loki sighed. “In any case, being a prisoner in those dungeons is like being a rare specimen on display. The cells are shielded by force-fields. It is like living in a small, shining cube.”

“That is where you intended to put me?” Ragna’s tone was not accusing, merely curious, but Loki winced internally, all the same.

“No. There are more isolated, hidden cells in the deeper recesses of the palace. They are ancient, and much less easy to find. I would have put you there.”

He felt her hand begin to withdraw, and he caught her fingers on an impulse, running his thumb over her knuckles reassuringly. It was a mistake, but the instinctive drive he felt to soothe her was rearing its ugly head. “The Midgardians put me in a completely clear cell,” Loki continued. “It was located inside one of their aircraft. Nothing more than a fishbowl, really. It was all part of the plan, and I was not there long, but I despised it.”

“You have never spoken to me of your… plans for Midgard.”

Loki scoffed. “That is a conversation for another time.”

“Have there been other prisons?”

“Yes. But I do not wish to speak of them.”

“Ah.”

As they sat there in silence for a few moments, Loki mindlessly continued to smooth his thumb over her warm skin, realizing that the memories of the Other did not seem as vivid now, with her here. That was useful, at least, he told himself. That was an acceptable reason to keep her close. “Tell me about your mortal stories,” he finally said.

 

* * *

 

The anger that Loki felt seemed to recede in the following days, although it stayed bubbling beneath the surface. For now, Loki was content to keep things as they were, assuring himself that he was master of his own fate, that he was stronger than his impulses. And though he knew it was a weakness, Norns help him, he could not stem the flow of warmth that he felt when Ragna smiled at him.

Having something outside of their interactions to focus on certainly helped; Fandral had brought word that one of the outlying lords was supposedly recruiting his own personal militia, and while it was not against the law for nobles to do so, it did raise alarms. He had sent the Warriors Three to visit nearby towns, to see if they could determine if there was any reason that he might be making such a move at such a suspicious time.

His desire to uncover the origins of the spell had been renewed, and he spent more time locked in his study. If Ragna noticed that he was keeping more of a distance, she did not mention it, and he always made sure to reappear in time for dinner. At some point, they adopted the habit of reading by the fire after they ate each night, each engrossed in their own research, pointing out anything interesting that they might have found. It was peaceful, and he tried to make himself think of her as a sort of companion-at-arms, a teammate in the battle against whatever menace they were facing.

A month had passed since she first made her grand reappearance in his life, and Loki was having a difficult time imagining his chambers without her there. Despite the turmoil she caused him, and the pain, there was also something incredibly comforting about the consistency of her presence. No matter what happened outside of his sanctuary, Ragna was always waiting when he returned. As long as he was able to keep some semblance of distance between them, he felt as though this allowance was acceptable. He could handle it. But, of course, nothing was meant to last.

 

* * *

 

The evening was freezing, and the pair sat on the floor near the hearth, texts spread around them as they compared notes. Loki’s day had gone well, and he was in a relatively teasing mood, enjoying the way Ragna’s eyes flashed when he derided her handwriting.

He wrapped his fingers around hers, guiding her to sign her name with an elaborate flourish. That was his first mistake. _“That_ is how a noblewoman should write,” he teased. “Graceful and feminine.”

“Like you?” she shot back, and Loki snorted. “Besides, my words are perfectly legible, even if they are not as _fanciful_ as yours.”

“I am not fanciful,” Loki retorted, frowning regally as he straightened up, glaring down at her.

“Have you _seen_ your helm?”

His dour expression cracked, and he chuckled. “Elaborate helmets simply demonstrate that the wearer does not actually _need_ the added protection.”

“You do love showing off, I suppose.”

“I do.” He would enjoy showing _her_ off, he mused. In some way, perhaps that was what he was doing at the ball. With no one knowing who he was, he had not gained much satisfaction from it.

“I do _like_ your helmet,” Ragna thoughtfully added. “It is quite intimidating.”

“Is it?” Then, he made his second mistake, reaching forward to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. Her lips parted slightly, breath quickening. “I must remember to wear it more often.”

Ragna climbed into his lap suddenly, leaning in, hands on his shoulders. Loki caught her by her throat, eying her warily. “What is this?” he said, watching as a score of emotions flew across her face.

“I thought,” she said, voice timid but eyes determined, “that I might kiss you.”  Firelight flickered across her features, bathing her in a radiant glow, and Loki was paralyzed, any of his usual sharp retorts frozen in his throat. His hand dropped, and the girl closed the space between them, pressing her lips against his in a sweet, chaste kiss.

Something inside Loki snapped then, and he tugged her forward, fingers tangling in her long hair. He was rough to her gentleness, but she responded with increasing fervor, sliding her arms around his neck, pressing herself against his chest. It felt like an eternity before he pulled her back, studying her. She was flushed now, her lips swollen and eyes wide as she stared back at him, panting softly. “Why?” he asked desperately.

“To see if my feelings could be returned,” she whispered, and Loki groaned in frustration, catching her once again in a searing kiss, a possessive nip to her lip earning him a hum of appreciation. He was lost, drowning in the feel and the touch and the taste of her, even as his mind screamed in warning. _Stop this_ , it cried, _before it is too late_ , but he ignored his caution and threw himself into the moment, holding her close, his free hand trailing down to trace at the smooth skin revealed where her tunic had bunched up around her thigh.

It was only when he involuntarily rolled his hips, causing her to moan, that reality washed back over him, as cold as ice, hardening his heart. He pushed her away. “Get out,” he said, avoiding her bewildered, hurt expression.

“Loki-” she ventured, reaching for his hand.

“ _Leave_ ,” he hissed. “Go to bed. Get out of my sight.”

He thought he saw a trace of a tear on her cheek as she turned and fled, but he told himself that it did not matter, that she was surely false, that trusting anyone else so completely was a weakness that he could not afford. A pitcher sitting on the nearby table shattered, a byproduct of his simmering rage and frustration, and Loki cursed, heaving the book nearest to him at the wall.

Breathing deeply, he tried to regain his calm, for he had much work to be done. He could not allow the girl to distract him so, and he hated her for seducing him so easily, so innocently. This was too much; this was something that he could not simply ignore. Donning the guise of the Allfather once again, he strode from his chambers with haste, eager to find something, _anything_ , to make him forget her kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back again with some Loki-POV to amp up the angst (and believe me, there is angst aplenty up ahead). The next chapter is likely going to move more firmly into M territory, so stay tuned!
> 
> Also, thank you again for your comments! For those who are reading both of my fics, don't worry, The Gladiator will be updated in a day or so. This story has been ruling my thoughts for the past week, so I've been working on some later developments for it while I'm in the zone. 
> 
> <3 MoA


	18. The Crossroads

Ragna was swathed in darkness, but she knew, somehow, that she was not alone. A warm caress trailed down her cheek, and she turned to it, searching. _“Ragna,”_ a voice whispered in her ear, heated and smooth, _“I need you, Ragna.”_ It was a voice filled with delicious promise, _Loki’s voice,_ she realized, and she sighed contentedly, pleased that he was more forthcoming in her dreams than he was in real life. She felt nimble fingers running through her hair, and then his voice became a bit more insistent. “Ragna, wake up.”

It was not a dream. Awareness crashed over her like a wave, and her eyes flew open, just in time for her to see the king shrug off his shirt and throw it aside. The blankets covering her were torn away next, and then he was upon her, kissing her fiercely, his tongue exploring her mouth with an urgency that frightened her.

“What are you doing?” she gasped as soon as he gave her a moment to breathe, indignant that he would reject her so coldly, then demand her attention as soon as he changed his mind. “Are you mad?”

He lifted a hand to cup her face, long fingers digging roughly into her jaw. Hidden behind the lust in his eyes was something determined, something desperate. “Is this not what you wanted?” he hissed. “To seduce me?”

She stared at him in mortification, struggling to push him away, but unsurprised to find that he was immovable. The fingers on her jaw, at least, loosened slightly.   _“Seduce_ you? I have not been trying to _seduce_ you, Loki!”

“Then what is the meaning behind your actions of late?”

“It is because I love you!” Ragna cried out, suddenly unable to hold the words back any longer. Heat flooded through her, an uncomfortable mix of embarrassment and responsiveness to his touch. Could the foolish man not _see_ how she felt about him?

Loki recoiled as if he’d been struck, and she struggled to catch her breath. “You do not love me,” he said finally, expression unreadable. “You cannot _love_ me.”

Then, the god resumed his attack, crashing his lips against hers with renewed ferocity. Ragna gasped at the unexpectedness of it, and he seemed to take it as an invitation to deepen the kiss. He shifted his weight, halfway pinning her to the bed, and his hand slid down from her jaw to roughly cup her breast. The sensation was foreign, new, and it pulled a moan from somewhere deep within her, even as her mind warned that this would be a terrible mistake.

His response could best be described as a snarl, and Ragna felt a sharp sting as he bit down on her lip, moving on to trail kisses down her exposed throat. A strange sort of haze began to cloud her mind, the entirety of her focus narrowing down to the mouth and fingers of the king who currently seemed intent on setting her blood ablaze. She had to stop him, she knew, before she lost all ability to _think._

“Loki,” she breathed, reaching to tug at his long, dark hair. The god did not cease, and in fact, the hand at her breast squeezed harder. Her back arched, her traitorous body’s eager response only heightening her shame. She tried again, this time giving a firm yank to the lock of hair tangled in her fingers.

Breaking away with an irritated huff, Loki glared down at her. “Do that again, girl,” he swore, “and I will not be so gentle.” _Gentle?_ Ragna thought, disbelieving. This was what he considered _gentle?_

He was frowning at her tunic now, as if he had just noticed its presence, as if the barrier it provided somehow personally offended him. Grabbing her collar, he ripped the shirt open with one firm, decisive jerk. Ragna shrieked in protest at the sudden exposure, cold air rushing to caress her overheated skin. From the look in his eyes as he perused his handiwork, she might have thought that Loki was a man starved, and she a bountiful feast; the glint in his gaze sent a warm flare of _something_ to coil low in her belly, and she unthinkingly rocked her hips against the thigh that held her trapped.

Loki inhaled sharply. “You cannot love me,” he repeated, and Ragna felt that the mantra was intended more for him than for her. “But _desire…_ desire is acceptable.” He sounded as if he were making some sort of grand concession, or delivering a long-debated judgment. Ragna wanted to respond, knew that she should be outraged by his blatant dismissal of her feelings, but her mind went blank the instant Loki’s mouth found her previously-neglected breast, his hand returning to caress the other. Her head rocked back against her pillow, eyes fluttering closed.

For a moment, she felt frozen in time; certainly nothing could be more important, more _vital,_ than the electrifying feelings now buzzing across her skin. But then his hand migrated down the soft plane of her stomach to graze against the thin fabric shielding the apex of her thighs, sliding beneath, and Ragna’s world suddenly returned to painfully-sharp focus. He groaned her name at the slickness he found there, somehow making it sound both like a curse and a prayer, and Ragna gripped the pillow by her face, turning red in mortification even as the burning in her veins increased.

_He feels nothing for you,_ the voice in her head whispered. _He cast you aside and denied you when you tried to tell him how you felt. This is only happening because he is lonely, and you are convenient._ The thought tore at her heart, but she could not deny the truth of it. She would not allow him to use her like some toy, easily broken and tossed aside. His fingers dipped lower, and her hips pressed forward, body eagerly responding to something that her heart knew would destroy her.

“Loki,” she gasped, “You cannot-” He leaned back suddenly, intently watching her body arch as he pressed a finger inside of her, quickly joined by another. She hissed at the sting of it, and he growled, muttering something that she could not decipher. “You must stop,” she whispered, but his ministrations did not cease, and the burning of her desire soon overwhelmed the discomfort she’d felt at the intrusion. Her muscles tensed, and she trembled, head falling back to stare at Yggdrasil above her. Tears of frustration began to pool in her eyes. Loki could have said something reassuring, at the very least, something sweet and comforting. He was the _God of Lies,_ why could he not put that to good use now?  

Ragna’s attention was caught by the rustle of fabric as Loki shifted again, kneeling between her legs to shift his weight and free his other hand, for the other remained busily occupied. His hand smoothed down her chest and belly as he stared down at her, perusing her body while steadfastly avoiding her eyes. _Judging me from on-high,_ she thought bitterly, and as she lay flat on her back with the god looming over her, she had never felt more weak. Whimpering as he pressed into her more insistently, she watched in alarm as his free hand left her hip to begin tugging the laces of his trousers free.

“Loki,” she said, emotions raw and stinging as her body betrayed her and sang against his touch, pressing herself against his hand. “Loki, please.” He ignored her, did not even look up at her, and she felt a painful ache throb in her heart. _He feels nothing for you,_ the voice reminded her.

In a moment of desperation, she tore the ring off of her finger, gasping at the loss of sensation as Loki jolted and withdrew from her suddenly, freezing in place above her. He finally met her gaze, and there was something furious there, something pained. “You would deny me?” he whispered coldly, tracing his slick fingers across her lower belly. “When I can plainly see your need? When I can _feel_ it?” She shuddered, and he raised his fingers to his lips deliberately, tongue darting out, refusing to break eye contact. “When I can _taste_ it?”

Burning with shame and desire, Ragna felt bereft at the loss of his touch, her skin hypersensitive, nerves on fire. She was furious with him in that moment, for making her feel this way, making her want to beg to be conquered. “I will not be a notch on your _kingly_ bedpost, Loki,” she snapped, although it did not come out with the vehemence she had intended, marred by her soft panting for air.

“Is that so, girl?” HIs fingers dug into her hipbone, and he leaned forward, crowding over her, intimidating her, for she had nowhere to flee. “Is this your game, acting sweet and innocent to lure men to your bed, only to refuse them?” She gaped at him in shock, not understanding where Loki could have possibly gotten this notion that she was some sort of calculating temptress. The grip on her hip became bruising, and despite the frigidity of his tone, his green eyes were blazing with an emotion that she could not place. “In case you have forgotten, I am the _king,_ and _you_ are nothing more than a treacherous little handmaid. You do not have the luxury of _choice._ You cannot _deny_ me.”

Squeezing her eyes closed, Ragna went limp, a tear rolling down her cheek. There it was, out in the open: a reminder of the painfully unbalanced dynamic that underlay any of their gentler interactions. “Go ahead, then, sire,” she said softly. “Do as you wish.”

A few moments of stillness passed, the room silent save for the sound of their breathing. The god’s grip suddenly abated, and a moment later, the malevolent presence hovering above her disappeared. Ragna opened her eyes just in time to see the heavy bedchamber door crash shut, followed shortly by the sound of splintering wood and shattering glass.

 

* * *

 

It had taken her hours to fall back asleep, even after the sounds of the God of Lies venting his rage had ceased. From the amount of time that Ragna had been able to hear him crashing around, she was almost certain that he had destroyed the sitting room, repaired it, and then destroyed it all over again, perhaps more than once. When her exhausted body did finally succumb, her mind tormented her with vivid nightmares, dreams of fleeing through the darkness, chased by mocking laughter.

When dawn broke, she finally gave up on the idea of getting any true rest, and she held the shredded tunic closed as she climbed cautiously from the bed, surprised by the faint ache between her thighs. _Bastard,_ she thought, allowing herself to be vicious for once, almost as angry at herself as she was at him. _Yet I fell in love with him anyway. How wise, Ragna._

She shivered as she moved over to one of the windows, pressing her forehead against the freezing glass. It was likely snowing now, in the mountains near Ringsfjord. Ragna missed home, now more than ever. What lies had Loki spun, to keep her family from asking after her? Did they even know that she was no longer serving as a handmaiden? Did he assume that they were so far away, so removed from palace life that they were not a concern? It was nearing a month since she had last written to them. It was a topic that she had been afraid to broach, worried that it would unsettle the fragile peace that they had found. So much for that.

The gown she picked from her chest was long and warm, a soft mint-color. Clutching it to her chest, she tried the door, fearing, for the first time in weeks, that she may find it locked. She bathed quickly, swallowing thickly in dismay when she noticed the large bruise purpling at her hip. As much as she wanted it gone, Ragna would never ask him to heal it. _Let it serve as a reminder of my foolishness._

Ragna found the sitting room in perfect, pristine condition, fire roaring as always. There was a breakfast tray sitting on the table by her chair, her usual sweet buns included. Something wrenched painfully in her chest. She curled up in her chair, hands wrapped around a hot cup of tea. _What now?_

Knitting seemed like a good way to quiet her mind, for she was far too frazzled to pay attention to reading for any span of time. Giving herself away to the monotony took some time, but she eventually became absorbed with her task, and the morning passed, then the afternoon. Her mostly-untouched breakfast tray shimmered into a fresh dinner tray when the evening came, causing her to jump. Ragna looked around in nervous anticipation, expecting to see the king appear, but he did not.

Hours passed, and it became increasingly apparent that Loki did not plan to return. Eventually, she went to the bed, digging through the covers to find the discarded ring. She hesitated for a moment, then shoved it back onto her finger. _It is for protection,_ she assured herself. _That is all._ The bed seemed far too large without him, so she stole a pillow and went to the couch. After what felt like an eternity, she finally fell asleep.

 

* * *

 

The next day was the same, and the one after that. Ragna could not bring herself to return to his bed alone, and she took up residence on the couch, fearing that he had abandoned her entirely.

 

* * *

 

When she awoke next, the first things her sleepy eyes lit upon were clasped hands, on which a pale chin rested. She blinked, and Loki’s face came into focus. He sat cross-legged on the floor beside the couch, elbows resting on his knees, watching her thoughtfully; it was not a regal posture, nor a domineering one, but her heart still began to thunder. Ragna subtly tried to push herself back against the couch, but he noticed, and something like hurt flickered in his eyes.

Loki’s hands dropped into his lap. “Ragna, I-” He broke off suddenly, sighing. “You have nothing to be afraid of, I swear. I will not touch you again.” She knew that he meant it to be reassuring, but strangely enough, the thought made her ache. “I am not a kind man, Ragna, nor a principled one. But… I do not wish for you to fear… that.” His eyes searched her face, brows slightly lifted, as if he were pleading for her understanding.

She took a deep breath, exhaling slowly. “May I ask you something, sire?”

“Of course,” Loki replied, but his voice was hesitant.

“What is it, exactly, that _you_ think I am trying to accomplish?”

He winced slightly, and she did not think that he would answer. “I do not… I do not _understand_ you, my lady. You seem almost carefree here, in this prison. It appears that you accept this, accept _me,_ far too easily. There must be _something_ you are after, and I thought that perhaps…” Trailing off, he glanced down at his hands, as if expressing honesty physically pained him.

_Maybe it does,_ she thought. _God of Lies, and all that._ Ragna pushed herself up into a seated position, looking down at him for one of the first times in her life, feeling slightly emboldened by vengefulness. “Perhaps what?” she prodded.

Looking up at her, he sighed in defeat. “You are beautiful,” he breathed. “And you tease me so, my lady. At first, I thought that you were simply innocent and naive, but then I came to the conclusion that it was an intentional torment. I believed that, perhaps, you intended to use your… _charms_ to influence me, or to gain your freedom.”

_Beautiful. Loki thinks that I am beautiful._ It should not inspire warmth, Ragna knew, but it did. She glared down at him, raising her brow critically. “That is what _you_ would do, in my situation.”

Loki grimaced slightly. “Yes,” he admitted. _At least he has the decency to look ashamed,_ she mused.

“Well, your initial assessments were correct, Allfather,” she said snidely. “As it turns out, I _am_ that naive. I _was_ that innocent.” He flinched again, an almost unnoticeable hint of movement. “Does it _please_ you to know this?”

“Yes,” he whispered, and his eyes flickered away again. Ragna stared down at him, uncertain as to what her next words should be. She had never before seen Loki this open, vulnerable. He had noticeably dark circles under his eyes, and his raven locks were messy. _The king has not been sleeping well,_ she realized, partly concerned, while another part of her felt a spark of twisted satisfaction.

‘What happens now?” Ragna asked. Loki looked exhausted, drained, and she itched to smooth back his hair, to soothe him, even as she wished to punish him.

“I have been warding my old chambers,” he said. “You will stay here; it is much safer, in the case of an attack.”

Ragna’s eyes narrowed. “You are running away,” she accused.

“I am attempting to be accommodating,” he retorted, a hint of irritation coloring his tone. It almost relieved her to hear it. _There is the Loki I know._

“I will sleep on the couch.”

“You will _not_ be sleeping on the couch.”

“Then _you_ sleep on the couch,” she shot back. Ragna met his determined frown with a glare of her own, and after a moment, she sighed. “Stay here.”

Loki looked skeptical. “You would feel… safe, with me here?”

“Yes.” She did not fully comprehend why she said it, but he looked so fragile for once, and she truly did not want him to leave. If he left, she would be alone, and then there was still the tricky matter of _loving_ him that she would still need to deal with. Tentatively, she reached out to stroke his cheek, surprised when he closed his eyes and leaned into her touch.

“You are far too forgiving,” he softly informed her. “I am extremely grateful for it.”

Raising her other hand, she cupped his face, peering down at him sternly. She was tired of the mistrust, of his constant cycles of self-pity and regret. “No,” she said. The god blinked up at her, appearing slightly confused. “I do not forgive you, Loki. If you care about my forgiveness, you must earn it this time.”

“Lady Ragna, I-”

“I have given you no reason to doubt my loyalty, _sire,_ in the entire time that I have been here. I have no ulterior motives. I have made the best of my situation. I have made _my_ feelings clear. Whether you accept that or not is up to _you,_ but I will not sit by any longer while you question my character.”

She felt the muscles in his jaw twitch, but he did not pull away. “What would you have me do?”

_“Trust_ me,” she pleaded. “If you cannot trust me, if you are not willing to _try,_ then take me to the dungeon.”

“You do not belong in a dungeon.”

“Then where do I belong, Loki?” Ragna leaned closer, intent on forcing more truth out of him, but his eyes flickered down. _“Where do I belong?”_

He avoided the question. “I do not believe in loyalty,” he said quietly. “Or trust. They are weaknesses; the fates of every member of my family speak to this lesson.”

“You are the Allfather!” she exclaimed. “Do you intend to dwell in miserable memories of your past for the rest of eternity?” Digging her fingers in slightly, she noticed that he felt colder than usual. _That is what this is like,_ Ragna thought, _arguing with a block of ice._ She wanted to shake him; at this point, she was beyond caring what he would do about the impropriety. “Eternity is a long time to be alone, sire.”

Loki flinched. “The past informs the future.”

“It may inform it, but it does not dictate it. You are making a choice.”

“Yes.” He stared at her, his mind far away, and Ragna realized that her hands were shaking. “I shall endeavor to be worthy of your forgiveness, my lady.”

A shaky breath escaped her, and she closed her eyes, leaning forward to rest her forehead against his. “Thank you, my king.”

 

* * *

 

In the following days, Loki treated her as if she were made of glass. Ragna did not protest when he sent her off to bed at night and remained on the couch, for she knew that he was battling his own demons, and such things took time. She was certainly facing a few inner struggles of her own, but she could admit to herself that she also missed his presence at night.

It was not as if the king’s tempestuousness vanished overnight, but it seemed that he was more careful to not let it spill over in her presence. Ragna could tell that he was exhausted, though he offered no explanation as to why; when he returned at night and his glamours disappeared, he looked almost sickly, dark circles under his eyes, veins becoming more apparent under his pale skin. She found it worrying.

Gifts began to appear intermittently, although he was incredibly dismissive if she tried to mention them. First, it was a book of poetry from Alfheim, surprising because they had recently turned all of their efforts to research. Then, a massive cozy blanket appeared on her armchair one morning, followed by a pearl-inlaid hairbrush on the vanity in the bath. More importantly, Loki genuinely seemed to be making an _effort,_ and that meant more to her than any physical gift ever could.

 

* * *

 

Around two weeks had passed when Ragna awoke from her own fitful slumber to muffled screams of pain. Instantly awake, she ran from the bedchamber, searching for the king. She had never heard Loki cry, and the sound chilled her to the bone. Even as she rushed to him, her mind warned her that she may be running into an attack, some situation that she was not equipped to handle. She did not stop.

When she found Loki, he was on the couch, right where she had left him. His eyes were closed, fists clenched at his sides, and his face was contorted. “Loki?” Ragna whispered worriedly, and as she dropped to her knees, she noticed that a vivid blue was creeping up his neck.

He tensed suddenly, head rocking back. “Please!” he sobbed, and she was horrified to see a tear creeping down his cheek.

“Loki!” she cried, grabbing his arm and shaking him as hard as she could. “Wake up! It is a dream, wake up!”

With a choking sort of gasp, the king shot bolt upright, scrambling away from her. His eyes darted around the room, and she feared moving too suddenly, for he looked like a wounded animal. “Are you real?” he demanded, voice hoarse. “Are you?”

“Of course. I am Ragna.”

“You were Ragna there, too,” he whispered, and she frowned in confusion. What did that mean?

Carefully, she patted his leg in an awkward gesture of reassurance, and his focus seemed to sharpen. “Is there anything I can do?” she asked. He did not answer, so she tried to joke, hoping to distract him from whatever nightmare he was still seeing. “You could make us tea.”

Loki groaned, rubbing his temples. “You are real,” he declared. “You have far more poise in my nightmares.”

Ragna cocked her head, wondering if she should take that as a compliment, or an insult. At least the blue was starting to fade, which she took as a good sign. “Do I feature often in your nightmares?”

“Yes.”

“Did I… did I die again?”

“Yes.” He seemed reluctant to respond, but Ragna felt compelled to press for more.

“Did you kill me, this time?”

His head snapped up to meet her gaze, and he looked slightly ill. “No.”

“Then how-”

“Please,” he cut in. “I will answer your questions in the morning, but I cannot… I do not wish to discuss it right now.”

Ragna had no desire to cause him additional distress, so she moved to sit at the other end of the couch, feeling his stare burn into her. “Loki,” she began hesitantly, “your eyes… they are still slightly discolored.”

She saw fear flash across his expression. “What color?” he asked.

“Red. It is only slight,” she added, not understanding why the color mattered. Was it not concerning enough that his physical form was changing during his sleep?

It must matter, though, for Loki visibly relaxed, releasing a shaky breath. “Jötunn,” he said. “That is just my cursed birth-form peeking through the veil. I apologize if it frightens you.”

“I was more concerned by everything else, actually. Your eyes are fine either way, sire. They are still _your_ eyes, after all.”

“Are they?” He chuckled mirthlessly, pressing his fingers to his temples again.

“Does your head pain you?”  Loki nodded, then gave her a look of befuddlement when she patted her lap. “Come here, then,” Ragna said, deciding that boldness suited her well. He frowned, glancing between her and her legs as if he expected a trap. “Trust me,” she sighed. “You protest now, but you will thank me later. And bring the blanket.”

Loki was usually so graceful, so in-control, and there was something endearing about seeing him awkward and uncertain. Moving stiffly, he slid across the couch, resting his head on her thighs. It was not exactly easy making the blanket fit over both of them without burying his head, but Ragna was determined, and she made it work. “Close your eyes,” she ordered, lightly scraping her fingers along his scalp.  

A small huff escaped him, and it sounded pleased, although with Loki, one could never be certain. “Why are you doing this?”

“You need it,” she replied simply. “I think it will help.” Weeks ago, such a statement would have earned his ire, but now, he merely hummed in acknowledgment, and her heart swelled. “I am here, and nothing can harm you.”

It did not take long for both of them to fall asleep.

 

* * *

 

Ragna came to after Loki had already left for the day, stretched out on the couch with the blanket tucked snugly around her. _That was… nice,_ she thought, still feeling fuzzy and warm from the first peaceful rest she’d had in days. _But of course he had to run away as soon as he woke up._ He had said that he would tell her about his nightmares, and she intended to hold him to that.

A new book sat on the table, and as she sat up to examine it, she noticed a scrap of paper tucked inside. _Here,_ it said, _with me._ Ragna’s mind flashed back to her desperate demands from two weeks earlier. _Where do I belong, Loki?_ This, at last, was his answer. She blushed, feeling slightly giddy. _Here, with me._ It was no grand confession of affection, but it was _something,_ something significant, and she could not help but be moved.

 

* * *

 

“Are you ready to tell me about your dream, sire?” she asked that evening over dinner, determined not to let him escape again.

Loki sighed, setting his cup on the table. “No, but I did say that I would, didn’t I?”

“You did.”

“To be honest, I am not certain where to begin.” He paused for a few moments, deep in thought, then held out a palm; a ruby swirl of energy appeared, floating and flowing like liquid. “Do you know what the Dark Elves were after, when they attacked?”

Ragna stared at the projection. Even though she knew it was not real, the thing seemed to be thrumming with a sort of malevolent energy. “The mortal Thor cares for, Jane Foster… she studies the ways of the universe. We were told that they wanted something she had uncovered, something dangerous. That is all I ever heard.”

“It was this.” Loki flexed his fingers and the thing separated into shards, whirling around before reforming in the shape of a glowing red stone. “They called it the Aether, an indestructible power source that feeds on matter. It is what Bor faced during the war with Svartalfheim. They were not able to destroy it then, so they hid it away. Thor’s mortal happened to stumble across it during the Convergence, and it took her as a host.”

“That is an odd coincidence.”

“I begin to believe that there are no such things as coincidences, not in this universe, at least. The Aether is one of six cosmic singularities, stones of power that predate everything we know. It grants the power to alter reality itself, but it comes at a price; it _consumes.”_ The image floating above his hand changed then, and Ragna saw the blank face of the mortal Jane, suspended in a cloud of red, her eyes as black as the Void.

Her skin began to crawl. “There are more of these stones of power, then, floating about the cosmos?”

“Yes,” Loki replied, smiling mirthlessly. “And for I time, I possessed two of them.”

Ragna’s eyes widened at shock, and she stared at the king in disbelief, the illumination from the shifting illusion casting an eerie glow against his pale skin. “How?” she asked. “Why?”

“You know of the Tesseract?”

Frowning, she searched her memory. “It was a treasure of the kings of Asgard, used to build the Bifrost in ancient times, was it not?”

“Yes, it was. But it somehow ended up on Midgard, and the mortals recently uncovered it and thought it wise to meddle with cosmic energy.”

There was a surprising amount of bitterness in his tone. “That is why you went to Midgard?” she ventured, pleased by his openness but concerned that they were progressing into volatile territory. A glowing blue cube replaced the cloud of Aether in his palm.

“More or less. After I was abandoned to the Void, I fell for what felt like eternity. There was _nothing,_ Ragna. No light, no sound, no warmth. Eventually, I ended up in a pocket of space called Sanctuary. I was taken by a creature called the Other, servant of Thanos.”

_“The Mad Titan?”_ Ragna gasped. “He truly exists?”

“Oh, he most certainly exists. And we are not on good terms.”

Paling, Ragna set her plate down on the table, appetite lost. Her voice felt weak. “The other prisons you spoke of…?”

“Yes,” he stated simply. “A man must be broken before he can be remade. The Mad Titan has seen every facet of my mind, every weakness, every doubt. I was alone, betrayed. I wanted a throne, and I was eventually offered one.” A blue stone appeared now, spinning slowly, and the blue light reflected in his eyes made him look a bit frightening. “This is the Mind Gem. It was given to me, along with an army, to control and be controlled by, although I did not realize it at the time. Its influence is insidious.”

He closed his fist, and the images disappeared. “It never really leaves,” he added softly.

“And these are the things that you dream of now?”

“In a sense. I failed Thanos, you see. I allowed a safeguard to be built into the portal that would bring his armies from across the universe to Midgard, to the Nine Realms. He will come for me, and my slumber is plagued with visions, enhanced by my continued nearness to the Tesseract.”

“The Tesseract is here?”

“We used it to repair the Bifrost,” he said, sagging back into his seat. “Heimdall is tasked with protecting it, but it rests inside the Allfather’s vault. I have been in close proximity to it for some time now. It whispers to me,” he added, staring into the fire with an almost-wistful expression. Ragna shivered.

“Sometimes, in my nightmares, I slay you when I retake it for myself. Increasingly, however, _he_ murders you, retribution for my betrayal, and I cannot stop it.” Loki’s eyes closed, and he took a deep breath. “That is as much detail as I am willing to share.”

“It is as much as I am willing to hear, I believe,” she replied, feeling a bit unsteady. How could she leave him and go to bed with the knowledge that the Mad Titan Thanos was rattling around in his head?

“I apologize. I did not mean to frighten you.”

“Well, you have, sire. Now you must make amends.”

The king looked startled. “Amends?” he questioned warily, watching her as she stood.

“Yes.” Ragna hesitated for a moment, then reached for his hand. “Come back to your bed,” she said awkwardly, “to sleep. It has been weeks. You are tired, and so am I.”

He was going to refuse, she could tell by the way that he ignored her outstretched hand, by the way that he stared at her in confusion. “Please,” she added. “I… I’ve missed you.”

Loki took her hand.

 

* * *

 

_This is where you belong,_ she thought a short while later, as Loki wrapped around her, burying his face in her hair. _Here, with me._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry it's been a while since I updated! I really like this chapter, and I hope that you do, too <3


	19. The Plan

Ragna was curled around him when he awoke, just as if he’d never left, as if he’d never wronged her. Loki knew that his sins were many, yet here she was, and as he trailed his fingers down her cheek, he basked in the warmth of cautious hope, no matter how fragile it may be. It was still early, and he decided to stay in bed, having no urge to wake her. She looked so _peaceful._

Peaceful, and also alluring, he noted with despair, watching as her pink lips parted to release a soft sigh. He could not, _would not_ kiss her; he felt guilty for even considering her in such a way, after he had misjudged things so terribly the last time. Loki did not want to make her afraid of him again, and he was determined to keep his promise not to touch her.

But even so, Loki did not have the strength to banish the memories from that night, the image of Ragna bare beneath him, writhing and panting under his touch, pressing herself against his fingers in a desperate search for release. The taste of her…

He realized that he was beginning to breathe a bit heavily, and he tore his gaze from her lips. Unfortunately, he found the rest of her just as appealing, and he closed his eyes in frustration, trying to settle on what to next. Did he really _need_ to leave his chambers that morning? Surely the realm would not fall apart if he spent the morning in bed, and truthfully, he needed the rest. No, Loki decided, there was no need to leave Ragna’s side today. If anything dire happened, one of the Einherjar or servants would bring word.

Satisfied with his decision, the god opened his eyes again, wondering what the little handmaiden might be dreaming. He hoped that her dreams were happy, and selfish though it may be, he hoped they included him, though he did not dare to peek into them again. Before long, Ragna began to stir slightly, eyelashes fluttering open. She smiled shyly at him, looking almost embarrassed, and the sight of it pierced his heart as surely as any arrow.

“Good morning, sire.”

_Using titles this morning, are we?_ he thought. He would prefer to hear his name. “Good morning, my lady.”

“Did you sleep well?”

“I did. In fact, I have decided to declare a day of rest.”

“What do you mean?” she asked, brow furrowing slightly.

Loki’s hand slid around her back, absently playing with the long waves of hair that brushed against his fingers. “I mean that the kingdom will have to manage one day without me, because I have no intention of leaving these chambers.”

Her eyes widened slightly at that, and he realized that his words may have been misconstrued as suggestive, but before he could backtrack, Ragna smiled impishly. “I have the Allfather at my beck and call for a day? Ah,” she sighed, making a show of stretching on the massive bed, “what luxury.”

_You have me at your beck and call always,_ he grumbled to himself, but he did not voice it. Even though it may be true, he was not willing to admit to such things aloud. “What shall we do?” he asked instead.   

“Breakfast in bed?” she suggested hopefully, rolling back over to look at him, and Loki felt his throat go dry once again at the openness, the sheer _contentment_ in her expression. How could he deny such an innocent request?

“That can be arranged,” he acquiesced. Loki felt a small hint of childish playfulness bloom, a buried trait that Ragna’s very presence seemed to encourage. “Sit up and hold out your hands,” he instructed. “Palms up.” She complied, giving him a quizzical look. “You must remain very steady,” he warned with faux-sternness.

Then a cinnamon cake appeared in one hand, a cup of tea in the other, and Ragna laughed in delight, sloshing a bit over the rim. “I told you to remain steady,” Loki chastened as he vanished the spot of liquid from the comforter, though he could not entirely hide his smile.

“I apologize, sire. I was startled.”

“Hmm,” he acknowledged, tugging the rest of their breakfast tray into existence on his lap. “It baffles me how any small measure of seiðr continues to startle you, especially after residing with me for over a month.”

“It is _magical,”_ she replied, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “I cannot believe that it has been so long.”

There was a hint of something in her voice that Loki could not place. “Do you regret it?” he asked impulsively.

“Regret what, sire?”

“Searching for me,” he replied.

“No,” Ragna told him after a moment of hesitation, and the look in her eye made it seem that she thought him foolish for asking such a question. “I could not have done otherwise, in any case.”

“What do you mean?”

Blushing slightly, Ragna sipped at her tea. “I had been waiting to see you again ever since I left the palace,” she muttered. “I could never stay away from you.”

Loki was not sure what the emotion was that sped through him at her confession, but it choked him. “That was centuries ago.”

“Believe me,” she said, laughing wryly, “I know.”

“What did you do, for all those years?”

“I grew up,” Ragna said simply. “I learned to embroider and play music and all sorts of other ladylike pursuits. Fortunately, since we are so far from the society of the capital, I was also able to roughhouse with my brothers without getting into too much trouble.”

“How many siblings do you have? I do not recall any of them coming to visit the palace with you and your mother, when we were children.”

“They never cared to do so, they thought it sounded terribly boring. I have four brothers: three older, and one younger.”

_Five children?_ That was quite a lot, by Asgardian standards, and Loki fleetingly wondered if the girl’s partial-Midgardian lineage was responsible. “It sounds terribly chaotic, having that many children.”

“I thought that you enjoyed chaos,” she retorted, a small laugh playing around her lips. “Besides, I would describe it as ‘cozy.’ We have always been very close, my family.” She polished off the rest of her breakfast cake, turning towards him with a more serious expression. “Actually, I have been meaning to ask you something.”

“Yes?”

“What does my family think has become of me?”

He frowned, slightly uncomfortable at this new turn of conversation. “They believe, like everyone else, that you are on Vanaheim. I sent them an official missive from the Allfather when you ‘left.’ I also included a reassuring note in your hand.”

“You forged a letter from me?” she exclaimed, and Loki squirmed guiltily under her accusing stare.

“Yes. It seemed most efficient, and I was not in the best of moods, in the aftermath of everything that happened at the ball.”

Ragna sighed, closing her eyes for a moment to regain her composure. “They will not be content to leave me on Vanaheim forever, you know,” she said after a moment. “They will expect to see me again.”

“I know.”

They let the subject drop after that, neither wanting to pursue the heavy question of what was to happen next. It should be obvious to her, Loki thought, that he had no intention of doing away with her any longer. No, if anything, he was now frighteningly determined to keep her close. The thought of his chambers without her there was nearly painful to contemplate.

“I’m going to bathe,” he announced as soon as he’d polished off his breakfast, wishing that he could ask her to join him, wondering if she’d be angry if he did. “Meet me by the fire in a few moments, my lady?”

“Of course,” she replied, stretching languidly. “You should stay in sleeping clothes all day. I fully intend to stay in mine.”

 

* * *

 

Loki did not waste much time in the bath, eager to return to the little handmaiden who occupied his thoughts. If he’d had more nerve, he might have informed her that he typically did not wear sleeping clothes; that was a relatively recent development, for which she was entirely to blame. Still, he _was_ curious…

Pride flared through him at the way Ragna’s eyes tracked down his bare chest when he entered the sitting room, her cheeks taking on a delicious tinge of heat. “Will you not be cold, in only breeches?” she asked primly, small fingers curling into the blanket on her lap.

He laughed. “No, and you are the one who instructed me to remain in my sleeping clothes, are you not? This is how I sleep.”

“Sometimes, you wear a tunic.”

“Occasionally.” Emboldened by her obvious appreciation of his form, Loki decided to try his luck further, forgoing his armchair for the couch. “If you are so concerned about me staying warm,” he said, patting the space next to him, “then bring the blanket and join me.”

Perhaps that had been a mistake, he thought, seeing surprise flash across her face. He was lucky enough to have her in his bed at night; did he really dare to try for more? But then her lip quirked in a smile, and she rose, pulling the massive blanket with her. She settled in beside him, fussing with it until they were both covered to her satisfaction. “I was only teasing, you know,” she told him. “I remember you saying that the cold does not bother you.”

“True,” Loki replied, meeting her searching blue eyes, “but you will also recall me saying that I can appreciate warmth.”

“I do,” Ragna whispered, an odd tightness to her voice. Then, in a blink, the moment of tension was gone. “What shall we do to occupy our morning?”

“There is always reading.”

“Indeed there is, sire. Will you read to me?”

“What?” He looked down at her in consternation, irritated to find that she already had the makings of a slight pout forming on her pretty lips. When had that become such a weakness of his? How had she known?

_“Please,_ Your Majesty,” Ragna begged, hands clasped, her efforts so comically over-dramatized that they should have no effect on him, but they did. “Just for a short time. Your voice is most pleasing, and-”

“Fine,” Loki interrupted.

Beaming, the maiden shoved a book into his hands. “You gave me this one,” she noted.

The look he gave her was sour. “A Midgardian book, really?”

“Really,” she replied, remorseless.

He felt his temper beginning to flare, but then she leaned against his shoulder, quelling any of his arguments. Scanning the first page, he rolled his eyes. _Of course,_ Loki thought. _Conniving little wench._

“‘If music be the food of love,’” he read, “‘play on.’”

 

* * *

 

She had freed him from his labor eventually, though in truth, Loki had begun to enjoy the task. The way that she looked at him when he read aloud was… _incredibly_ flattering, to say the least. _“Silvertongue,”_ she’d teased him, and once again, he found himself wishing that he was still just the Trickster Prince, free to pursue a courtship.

_A courtship._ The thought caused him to freeze, a slight edge of panic quickening his heart. Was that what this was, or what it might have been, had things turned out differently? Not some short, silly palace affair, but something much more lasting, more profound? He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, irrationally afraid that she would suddenly guess his thoughts. Ragna certainly did not seem like the type of goddess suited for a short affair. In fact, he found it difficult to imagine ever tiring of her.

“Why do you enjoy these stories so greatly?” he asked. “You know that I find them foolish.”

“I enjoy tales of love,” she replied. “Is it not beautiful, sire, how many different words and means are used to describe and convey it, all across the Nine Realms?”

Loki scoffed, suddenly remembering his conversation with Ragna’s librarian suitor. “Have you been the recipient of such flowery words of praise, my lady?” he asked, curiosity outweighing caution.

She cocked her head to the side, thinking back, and Loki suddenly wished that he had not asked. “There was a young soldier a few decades ago,” she said after a moment. “He was stationed in Ringsfjord at one of the nearby manors. He wrote a few verses.”

“Did he?” Jealousy curled through him, dark and acrid, though he knew that it should not surprise him; a beautiful goddess like Ragna would have had her fair share of admirers. “Anything of note?”

“No,” she laughed, “Nothing that I recall.”

“How unfortunate for the young soldier, to be so forgettable.”

She gave him a knowing look. “I did not say that he was forgettable,” she said. “But he did not capture my fancy. Have you ever done something like that before, sire?”

“Like what?”

“Writing verses to win a lady’s favor?”

He laughed. “Does that sound like something I would do?”

“It does, God of Lies. You are quite proficient at turning a phrase.”

“I have never _written verses,”_ Loki scoffed. “Although I have been known to recite them from time to time.”

“From time to time,” she repeated, looking a bit piqued. “Of course.”

Loki thought, belatedly, that perhaps he should have lied, but he seemed to have a difficult time of it around her. “You are the first in a very long time,” he added clumsily, not entirely certain of what possessed him to say it. Ragna turned her face away, angled so that he could not read it properly, and he wondered if he’d only managed to make things worse.

He leaned towards her, determined to ask what she was thinking, when a loud banging on the doors caused both of them to freeze. Ragna turned to him with wide eyes. “Stay still,” Loki whispered, pressing a hand to her forehead and watching her shiver as the chill of seiðr worked its way down her body. “Absolutely still,” he added, Odin’s form taking shape as he marched to the door and wrenched it open.

Loki fixed the guards at the door with his best exasperated glare, a look he knew well, for he and his brother had often been on the receiving end of it. “What is it?” he barked. “I am not to be disturbed today.”

“My apologies, sire,” said Bjarke, clearly the least intimidated by Odin’s temper after a lifetime in the Honor Guard, “But one of the ravens just brought this, and it seemed to be urgent.” The man frowned slightly as he handed over a small sealed scroll, and had Loki been less annoyed by the interruption, he might have laughed; it was good to know that he was not the only one with a dislike of Odin’s two great ravens.

Breaking open the seal, he quickly scanned the message, pulse quickening as he did so. Really, could the Norns not afford him even _one day_ of total relaxation? “Thank you,” he said curtly. “Dismissed.”

As soon as the doors were closed and sealed again, Loki heaved a sigh, turning to find the little handmaiden still frozen in place on the couch, eyes wide and shocked. “You may move,” he said, startled when she began to gasp for air. “Were you holding your breath?”

“You said to be absolutely still!” Ragna cried, indignant.

“I did not mean to stop _breathing,”_ Loki replied. “It was only a precaution, in any case. There is a spell on the threshold that prevents anyone from seeing anything amiss from outside. They would have to come in for the secondary spell to even be necessary.”

“Remove it, please. I would like to be visible.”

“You are visible,” he teased, “to _me._ Is that not what matters?” But he did as she asked, earning a murmured thanks.

“What does the message say?”

“It really is none of your business, is it, girl?”

“How would I know, if you refuse to share its contents?” The look she gave him was imperious, demanding. She had clearly been spending far too much time around him, he thought. He was a terrible influence.

“Fandral of the Warriors Three has been keeping an eye on one of the lords for several weeks now. Agviðr, do you know the name?”

“I do,” Ragna told him, frowning slightly. “He is one of the forest lords from the inland, is he not?”

“He is. He has been spending quite a lot recently to raise a private military force. In light of recent events, I considered such a move suspicious, and so I had him put under watch.”

“And what has Fandral discovered, sire?”

“Nothing,” he replied ruefully, “and that is exactly the problem. He can find no cause for the lord to be putting together such a force, nor any source of funding to support so many men. I am going to have to go investigate myself.”

Loki fell back onto the couch with a sigh, tucking his hair behind his ear. It was getting rather long and unruly, he noted absently; he would be much more inclined to trim it short again, if Ragna did not seem so fond of playing with it in her sleep.

“You are going to go investigate?” she asked, a touch of worry in her tone. “You will leave the palace?”

“I cannot avoid it forever, Ragna. It has been years since I have actually travelled anywhere in the Realm other than the capital city, and I need to understand what it is that we might be facing. In fact, it would be wise for me to journey to Nastrond, as well, to follow up on the origins of our mysterious assassin.”

“How do you intend to manage such a feat, sire? I thought that straying from the palace endangered your illusions.”

“I will have to give it some thought. The simplest thing would be to put the Allfather into the Odinsleep; that is an illusion that would not require my presence to maintain, although it presents other complications.”

“For example, if someone attempts to slay Odin while he is sleeping again, your secret may be exposed.”

Loki glared, but Ragna’s expression remained untroubled. “I need no reminder of my transgressions,” he snapped. “And Odin was never in any _real_ danger during that incident, in any case.”

She patted his arm placatingly. “I know,” she said, “but that _is_ your concern, is it not?”

“It is,” he begrudgingly admitted. “If someone decides to stab the Allfather and nothing happens, I’m certain that it will raise some alarms.”

“What is the alternative, then?”

Ragna took to this all rather well, he thought, all of the scheming and planning and intricacies of deception. It would never fail to surprise him, especially considering how forthright she usually seemed. “I suppose I would need to go on an official tour as Odin, which would involve a great deal of coordination, because I would have to be accompanied by an entourage.”

That would _truly_ be tortuous, trying to manage a court on the road while occupying the Allfather’s form, and then there was Ragna to consider… if he made a public show of leaving the capital, would he not be tempting any assassins who might be watching the palace, waiting for the opportunity to finish what they had started? He did not intend to use her as bait again, and if he left her here alone, he would need even more potent spells in place to assure himself of her safety. It would consume a great deal of power.

“Wait a moment, sire,” Ragna said, rising to retrieve something from the side table that she seemed to have claimed as her own some time ago. Really, she had taken over the whole chamber, he thought, glancing around critically; there was a basket of knitting by the hearth, and heaps of books from Midgard and Vanaheim were piled on the center table. An elven painting that he had gifted her, based upon one of the dreadful ballads she loved so much, hung upon the wall near the door. Even the large, plush blanket that covered him now was a decidedly un-Loki-like touch.

He felt something akin to fear begin to take shape in his chest at the realization; had she noticed, he wondered, the slow, subtle changes that she was causing? Was he supposed to _do_ something about it?

“Here,” Ragna said, settling back down beside him with a satisfied expression, a map in hand. “Lord Agviðr lives just within the border of Gundersheim, does he not? Right around here, correct?”

Loki nodded. “His manor is a bit further north, but that is the general area.”

“And I am assuming that you cannot simply pop in and out with your seiðr?”

“It would not be effective, because I do not know what it is that I’m looking for. I need to spend some time getting the lay of the land.”

“Right. How long,” she mused, “would it take to reach his manor from this town?”

“Esklundr?” He frowned, peering more closely at the tiny dot that she pointed to on the map. “I have never been, nor have I even _heard_ of it, but if that map is accurate, I would estimate three days’ travel by foot.”

“May I offer up a plan of action, then, sire?”

“I am your captive audience, my lady.”

Ragna rolled her eyes at his tone, but did not let it stop her. “Have the Allfather go into a short Odinsleep as soon as possible,” she said. “Assure everyone, of course, that it is nothing serious, but that you simply need to fortify your power more frequently in light of… recent events. We can teleport somewhere near Esklundr, and proceed to Agviðr’s holdings as normal travellers from there. That would save us quite a bit of time, but would still allow you a chance to gather gossip from the locals.”

“‘We?’” Loki asked, freezing her with an icy stare. _“‘Us?’”_

“You did not intend to travel without me, did you?” she asked innocently, as if he couldn’t see past such a feeble attempt. “Besides, I am sure that I shall be much more secure at your side than I would be if you left me here alone. I am liable to attempt an escape in your absence.”

Glaring, he took hold of her chin, turning her to face him. “Are you threatening me, girl?”

“I am not certain, sire. Supposing I am, is it proving effective?”

“Your threats have no effect on me, little maid; there is no way for you to escape this place unless I wished it. On the other hand,” he conceded, “I would prefer to have you close, in case something goes amiss while I am gone.”

Loki was careful to keep his face blank as she beamed at him, jaw still trapped between his fingers. It was very hard not to kiss her, and for a moment, he considered ordering her to beg. It was not the noble thing to do, he knew. “So, I can accompany you?” she asked, blue eyes wide and hopeful.

He was not a good man. “For a kiss,” he smoothly replied. “You may accompany me in exchange for a kiss.”

His pulse thundered in his veins as he lamented his audacity, and Ragna stared at him for a moment as her smile fell, looking almost as surprised as he felt. Loki expected her embarrassment, or her outrage; he did _not_ expect for her to lean closer, gently pressing her lips to his. Eyes fluttering closed, he relished the moment, afraid to move lest he frighten her away.

Ragna leaned back after just a moment, studying him from beneath lowered lids. “A fair exchange, sire?”

“Yes,” he breathed, forcing himself to relax his grip on her jaw, setting her free. “More than fair.”

“Wonderful,” she said, smiling brightly once again. “When do we leave?”

 

* * *

 

Determined to put aside anything even remotely related to work, Loki had convinced Ragna to play the flute for him. It was only fair, he assured her, as he had read to her until his throat was quite dry. She looked so natural and carefree when she played, almost as if she were in her own little world. He enjoyed seeing her that way.

“You look like a forest sprite,” he teased. “All you need is a crown of flowers in your hair.”

“That sounds lovely, actually,” she sniffed, packing the instrument away and returning to sit in her armchair. Loki tried to suppress his disappointment that she had decided not to return to the couch; he’d had enough luck for one day, he reasoned, especially with the kiss that he had not deserved. “Can I ask you something odd, sire?”

“Of course.”

“What do you remember of me, from when we were children?”

He looked at her in alarm; the question seemed like a trap, and he felt guilty even at the thought of telling her that he had not thought of her in years, though he was certain she already knew. “I remember finding you intriguing,” he told her. “You were… different. I liked that. It is why I bothered with stealing and enchanting the bracelet.”

“You stole it?” she gasped, clasping her hand over her mouth to hide her laugh. “What would have happened if someone had noticed it? I might have ended up with my hand chopped off.”

“Nonsense,” Loki scoffed. “I would never let such a thing happen.”

“My hero,” Ragna replied, a touch of laughter still in her voice.

He frowned. “Why do you ask?”

“I wondered if you felt as though you’ve been sharing your chambers with a complete stranger, or someone you know well. You do not seem to mind.”

Loki studied her, wondering what had inspired such a thought. “Of course I mind,” he said. That was what he was supposed to say, wasn’t it? He was not expected to profess that he had grown fond of her presence, was he?

“Ah, I see,” Ragna replied, nodding thoughtfully.

“I mind it less, now,” he blurted, cursing the way he seemed to lose all charm when speaking to her. “There are benefits to having you here.”

“Is that so?” Her eyes were sparkling now, as if she’d gotten whatever it was she was after, and Loki felt heat burn in his cheeks.

“Yes.”

“I see.” She stretched, and then stood again. “I think that I am going to go for a bath, sire,” she announced, strolling away with a hint of a smile on her lips. He watched her hips sway as she left, baffled by the entire exchange, wondering why she seemed so pleased with herself.

When she returned, damp nightgown clinging to her form and smelling like honey, she curled up by his side on the couch, leaning lightly against his shoulder. _Yes,_ he thought, heart beating rapidly, _there are certainly benefits to having you here._

 

* * *

 

The two weeks leading up to the trip flew by with few upsets, and Loki found himself both tense and excited, for it had been quite some time since he had been free of the palace. He had informed his council that he would be spending a short time in the Odinsleep, and he had ordered that they be discreet. Everything was prepared for them to leave the safe confines of the capital the next day, although the king _had_ begun to worry over the weather. Now it was the height of winter, and Loki, ever alert to changes in the atmosphere, could sense a storm brewing to the north.

As he sat upon Hlidskjalf and listened half-heartedly to petitioners, he re-considered his plan for the hundredth time, worrying over every detail that might go wrong. The focal point of all of his concerns was Ragna; she had not left his chambers since she was nearly poisoned all those weeks ago, and in that time, he had come to think of the Allfather’s rooms as something of a safe haven. If he kept her hidden away, she should remain safe from harm. But, on the other hand, she would be far from his side, and only he could protect her… and he had promised.

Loki was lost in thought when the next petitioner appeared before him. It was a young Asgardian man with curly-blonde hair and blue-grey eyes, and the king watched him uneasily as he knelt, feeling that he recognized the man from somewhere. Then, it clicked into place all at once, and Loki’s grip tightened on his staff, heart quickening.

“Allfather,” he said, pressing his fist to his heart in salute, “I am Davyn Askrson, of Ringsfjord, brother to Ragna Askrdóttir. I have come seeking news of my sister.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They're going on an adventure!


	20. The Start of a Journey

Ragna was overwhelmed with excitement at the thought of leaving the Allfather’s chambers, no matter how at-home she’d become there over the past two months. It seemed like tremendous progress, this concession of the king’s, and she dared to hope that someday soon, she might be free to see her friends and her family again. Although, she knew that despite his recent kindness, Loki would not be eager to let her go so easily; even if he did trust her to some extent, he did not trust anyone else, and he would consider it a tremendous risk.

Pacing around the chambers to release some of her nervous energy, she almost did not notice when the king appeared suddenly just inside the threshold, a dark look shadowing his features. “Is something the matter, sire?” she asked, apprehensive. He had not changed his mind, had he?

“No,” he replied a bit sharply, rolling his shoulders, and then the worrisome look suddenly washed away. “Are you prepared to leave? I cannot risk popping in and out for things you might have forgotten once we are on the road; teleportation is a tricky thing to shield.”

“I am prepared, _sire,”_ she teased. “I have been ready to leave for a week now.”

His expression remained a bit vague, and she wondered again what was troubling him. “Get dressed,” he said, pulling a bundle of clothing from thin air and offering it to her. “I want to leave tonight, as soon as we have eaten.”

That caught her off-guard, and she followed behind him as he headed towards the bathing chamber, shedding his distinctive leathers as he went, apparently too distracted to bother undressing with seiðr. “Tonight?” she asked, catching him at the doorway just as he tugged off his under-tunic. “Why tonight?”

“Because I am the _king,_ Ragna, and I _wish_ it.” Then he disappeared behind the closed door, practically slamming it in her face. “Go change,” she heard him call, “or I will leave you behind.”

It was an empty threat, she was certain of it, but she still rushed to obey, wondering all the while at the god’s sudden show of moodiness. Still, if he ever _truly_ stopped being quicksilver and temperamental, she supposed he would stop being Loki, and Ragna did not want that; she _loved_ Loki, God of Mischief and Lies. She always had.

The clothing that he had provided was warm and functional, nothing like the oversized tunics and light gowns that she had been wearing ever since she took up residence in his chambers. There were thick woolen hose, and the gown was a heavy forest-green, with long white sleeves and a simple bodice.

He’d declared her own travel cloak inadequate a week before, which Ragna found suspicious, considering it had served her well enough during the icy winters in Ringsfjord, but now she understood the cause; Loki had needed the excuse to gift her something, a pretty black cloak with a tasteful hint of golden embroidery - not enough to give her any real appearance of wealth, but just enough to put his touch on her. The king had strange ways of handling his affections, she mused, tracing her fingers along the delicate lines of gold.

She had just finished lacing her boots when Loki reappeared, chest still bare, towelling his still-wet hair. “Come here,” he beckoned, “allow me to introduce you to your disguise.”

Frowning, she took his hand, allowing him to lead her to the large mirror on the wall as she felt the chill of seiðr slide across her skin, goosebumps forming. For a moment, she could only stare, finding it difficult to reconcile the notion that the face reflected in the polished glass was, in fact, her own. “You have made me into _you,”_ she stated, voice accusing.

“I’ve done no such thing.” At least he sounded more mirthful, now, she thought.

“You have,” Ragna insisted, exploring her new face with her fingers, finding her features just a bit _too_ sharp, too sculpted. Raven hair fell around her shoulders in silky waves, and in the mirror, she saw Loki twirling a strand of it around his finger experimentally, looking almost regretful. It was her eyes that bothered her the most, now a regal green that seemed somehow out-of-place. She looked like the Loki-version of a classical Asgardian beauty. It was highly unsettling.

“Be grateful that I did not alter your height, as well,” the king informed her with a smirk. “I have no doubt that you would have found your _graceful_ manner of movement _severely_ impaired.”

She glared at the gibe, tugging her new hair from his fingers and studying it in the mirror. “What do I _do_ with this?” she asked, exasperated. Though it was slightly shorter, the texture was smoother than what she was used to, and it was so overwhelmingly _different…_ Her chest squeezed, and she realized that perhaps she was having a difficult time adapting to the sensation of a different body; she’d never expected it to be so… bizarre. Or perhaps it was the thought of going outside again, after so long.

“You _braid_ it,” Loki said, staring at her as if she’d lost her mind. “Just like you normally would.” Then, seemingly taking note of her panic, he muttered, “I’ll do it.” Ragna watched in disbelief as he swept her hair over her shoulder and deftly plaited it, his face expressionless. “You would make a terrible sorceress,” he informed her. “Will you be able to handle teleporting so far?”

The anxiety that had been momentarily forgotten during the king’s show of tenderness suddenly returned full-force. “Do you mean that the distance will make it worse?” she cried.

“Of _course_ it will.”

She took a deep breath, steadying herself. “I can handle it.”

Loki laughed. “Perhaps I should knock you unconscious first.”

“It worked the first time,” she muttered.

“You were half-dead the first time,” the king retorted, going to his wardrobe to retrieve a clean shirt. “I assume we both prefer not to repeat _that_ experience.”

It was a correct assumption. “Do you not have clothing as part of your disguise?” she inquired. He looked much as he always did.

“I will change it with my glamor. I do not actually need the extra layers, remember? Sir Einar Fritjofson will appear better-prepared for the weather.” Sighing, he turned towards the bed. “Right, let’s get this over with.”

Though she should have known what was coming, Ragna had a difficult time suppressing her scream as Odin suddenly appeared on the bed, reclining under a shining dome. “Norns, Loki!” she exclaimed, edging closer for a better look, “The Allfather looks deceased.”

_“I_ am the Allfather,” he replied smoothly, checking over his work with a practiced eye, “And he is only an illusion. There is no cause for such dramatics.”

_Right._ Even though she had accepted their strange, hidden half-reality over the past months, the reminder that she still did not know exactly what Loki had done with Odin disturbed her, especially considering that she now lived in his chambers. She had secretly hoped that he had not actually murdered his father, though it was hard to deny that he had the ambition and resolve necessary to do so; had he not proven that, when he slew Laufey?

The pair moved into the main chamber, and with a wave of his hand, every one of her knick-knacks and treasures winked out of existence. “What did you do to my things?”

“They are hidden,” the king said, “Unless you think people will believe the Allfather suddenly took up knitting? Now stop asking stupid questions and come eat.”

She silently took a seat in her armchair, peering suspiciously at him as he devoured the contents of his plate, for Ragna could practically feel his frustration and worry bubbling just underneath the smooth surface of his skin. “You know, sire,” she said, “Everything will be fine. I am certain of it.”

“Yes.” There was a pause, and he glanced up at her for a moment, before returning his attention to his meal. “Have you considered what will happen, if we are caught?”

“If we are caught?” Ragna looked at him in confusion; the possibility had not really occurred to her; Loki seemed to be doing a marvelous job of keeping his tricks hidden, so far.

_“If_ we are caught,” he emphasized, pushing his plate away with a sigh. “If my identity is discovered, and yours, as well.”

“What are you getting at?”

“What I am _getting at,_ Ragna, is that your excuse as an innocent maiden, wrongfully and cruelly imprisoned by the imposter king, suddenly becomes very flimsy when we set off on a holiday together.”

“My _excuse?”_

“Yes. Oh, you can still say that I forced you, that you had no choice but to go along with my wicked plans for fear of your life, but there will be doubts. Your reputation will be tarnished irreparably.”

“Since when do you care about my _reputation,_ Your Majesty?” Ragna retorted, feeling her own emotions beginning to rise. “I suppose the important thing is not to get caught in the first place.”

Loki’s face was stony, but she saw his lips twitch slightly, as if he struggled to hold back something he knew he should not say. _“If_ anything happens,” he finally said, “and you cannot convincingly deny me to the lords, then demand to be judged by Thor.” He frowned in distaste. “He is woefully sentimental,” he added. “He would be the most forgiving.”

“Why are you being so morbid?” she exclaimed. “This plan is simple enough, and everything should be fine.”

“It is always important to prepare for contingencies.”

“I am prepared.”

“Are you? Show me.” As he leaned forward in his seat, his form flickered, and Ragna found herself staring into the piercing blue gaze of Prince Thor. “Ragna Askrdóttir,” he boomed, frowning sternly, “You stand accused of conspiracy and treason. How do you plead?”

She gaped at him, and he drummed his fingers on his knee impatiently, Mjolnir appearing in his other hand. “Not guilty!” she spluttered.

“Not guilty? You were found in the company of the murderous Jötunn Loki Laufeyson, my lady. How do you explain yourself?”

Ragna’s temper flared. “Your brother would not say such things,” she snapped.

The eyes of the God of Thunder remained firm. “He is not my brother.”

“Stop this, Loki.”

“That is a very weak defense.”

“Why must you be so _difficult?_ What has gotten into you?”

She saw his mouth twitch in irritation, an odd, out-of-place sight on the face of Thor. He leaned back in his seat, regarding her silently for a moment. “Do you know the traditional penalty for treason, Lady Ragna? It is death. Odin spared Loki last time.” He scoffed, flipping Mjolnir in the air as if it were one of his knives. “What a dreadful mistake that was.”

He was not going to give it up, she realized. Crossing her arms, she sat up a little straighter. If Loki wanted to play games before their little trip, then fine; Ragna could play his games. “I plead guilty, then, _Prince Thor.”_

His eyes widened in shock. “Guilty?” he asked, in a voice unmistakably Loki’s.

“Yes,” she continued. “I have feelings for Loki, you see, and -”

“Stop,” he commanded, Thor’s form and hammer vanishing in an instant.

“Why?” Ragna questioned, brow lifting in an expression of innocence. “You told me to take advantage of Prince Thor’s sentimentality, did you not?”

Loki grimaced. “I did. I meant for you to portray yourself as a damsel in distress.”

“Oh, I can _assure_ you that I am in distress.” The king glared at her. “Are you satisfied now, sire? Can we get on with our plans?”

“I suppose we might as well, since you are so determined to endanger yourself. Finish eating. We are going to be doing quite a bit of walking tonight.”

Sitting in stony silence, Ragna did as he said, for she _was_ rather hungry, and she knew that she would not have the luxury of instant food while on the road. She slammed her plate down on the table with slightly more force than necessary once she was done, still feeling a bit petulant about Loki’s grim attitude. “I am ready,” she snapped.

Loki sighed and closed the book that he had been perusing, pinching the bridge of his nose. When he opened his eyes a moment later, he looked slightly regretful. “I… apologize for upsetting you,” he muttered, appearing as though the words pained him. “My intention is to keep you from being imprisoned, or banished.”

Ragna felt herself soften slightly. “I _want_ to be by your side, Loki. I am prepared to deal with any consequences, come what may.”

The corners of his lips turned up in a faint, fragile smile. Standing, he snagged a pack from the floor, slinging it over his shoulder. “Come along,” he said simply, offering her his hand. She took it, and Loki led her to the center of the room, his form shifting once again as he did so.

The king took a deep breath. “Alright. This will be an adventure,” he said, as if he were trying to convince himself. He glanced down at her, and Ragna saw a small smirk appear. “And I _am_ rather excited to see how you handle this far of a jump.”

“What -” Ragna began, but Loki yanked her into a close embrace, and suddenly the icy crush of teleportation overtook her, knocking her breath away.

He had not been lying; it _was_ worse, and Ragna kept her eyes squeezed tightly shut, afraid of what she would see if she dared to open them. Just as she was beginning to truly panic, the rush disappeared, and she felt her feet connect with solid ground. Legs shaking, she clung to Loki with all of her might as he laughed. “You can let go now, little girl.”

She struggled to catch her breath. “I do not believe that I can.”

Expecting him to pry her arms away, Ragna was surprised when the king tentatively wrapped his arms around her, instead, rubbing her back. “Open your eyes. It will help the feeling dissipate more quickly.”

Her eyes fluttered open, and though she kept herself firmly wrapped around him for support, she slowly turned her head to take in their surroundings. The slight movement was enough to make her nauseous. _Please,_ she desperately prayed, _not in front of the king._

The crisp winter air helped slightly, and she inhaled deeply through her nose, taking in the sight of the dense evergreen forest that surrounded them, lit by starlight. “We made it,” she announced weakly.

Loki’s smirk was evident in his voice. “My brave little shield-maiden. I can only begin to imagine how you would handle travelling by the Bifrost.”

Even the thought of it made her feel ill. “I believe that I shall walk home, sire.”

His chest rumbled against her cheek as he chuckled. “You will do no such thing, my lady. These short trips are good practice, in any case. Before long, you will hardly even notice the sensation.”

“Does that mean that we will be making many trips?”

Loki stilled. “Perhaps.”

Ragna allowed herself just a moment more pressed against his chest, listening to his steady heartbeat, before she decided that it was time to pull herself together. Carefully, she moved away from his arms, turning around to examine the tiny clearing more closely. “Where is the path?” she asked, taking a step towards the trees.

Then suddenly, the world tilted, and she found herself looking sideways at a rather unremarkable-looking rock. The king’s disguised face appeared in her field of vision just a second later, looking exasperated. “I do not understand why this is so difficult for you,” he said. “It is most inconvenient.”

“I apologize,” Ragna gasped. “It was not my intention.”

Sighing, he scooped her into his arms. “I am beginning to suspect that it is merely an excuse.”

“An excuse for what?”

His eyes glittered as he peered down at her. “An excuse to be carried about by the Allfather.”

She felt heat rise to her cheeks. “Would that I were so cunning, sire.”

“Oh?” He walked straight towards the seemingly-impenetrable forest, and just as Ragna was beginning to question his path, the trees parted to allow them passage. “What sort of cunning plots would you devise, my lady?”

Pursing her lips in thought, Ragna wrapped her arms around his neck more firmly. “Being carried is rather enjoyable, I must admit, particularly when one is being carried by the most powerful sorcerer in the Realms.” She saw him smirk.

“Is this the full extent of your ambition?”

“Oh, no,” she said. “I believe I would use such powers to convince the king to join me for a dance. My last ball ended on a rather sour note, you see.”

“I see. _I_ think,” he said, voice carefully light, “that if you desired such a thing, you only need ask. What king could refuse?”

Blushing, she pressed her cheek against his chest, wondering if he was feeling the same strange sense of excited apprehension that now raced through her veins. “I will have to remember that.”

“Anything else?”

“I would like for you to meet my family, I think.” She said it without thinking, lost in the daydream of might-have-beens, and she was overcome with instant regret as she felt Loki stiffen.

“Why is that?”

“I think that they would like you,” Ragna whispered. “I like to think that you would like them, as well. You are an important part of my life.”

His laugh was harsh. “I highly doubt that your family would approve of you falling in with the God of Lies,” he said. “Even before my _extreme_ fall from grace, I was not the sort of man that tended to inspire parental confidence.”

Ragna frowned. “You make it sound as though you were some sort of notorious rake.”

“There were rumors to that effect.”

Her jealousy was a painful, heavy thing. “Were they true?”

“What do you think?” he asked, searching her eyes. Ragna was afraid to reply. “No,” Loki said after a moment, turning his attention back to the forest ahead. “For the most part, they were not true. But I still have a less-than-savory reputation, even excluding the recent treasons and near-massacres.”

He said it in a flippant way, but Ragna could hear an undercurrent of something in his voice, something that she could not place. _“I_ like you,” she declared, closing her eyes and focusing on the soothing rhythm of his breathing. “That is what matters. I am certain that they could be won over.”

Lips pressed against the top of her head for just a fraction of a moment, so softly that she almost thought she’d imagined it. “Perhaps they could.” But he did not sound convinced.

 

* * *

 

Ragna dozed for a time in his arms, though she had not intended to do so, and she was actually quite embarrassed when she woke. “Ragna,” Loki called, jostling her slightly. “Are you fit to walk? We have reached the main road.”

Yawning, she blinked up at him sleepily. “I am sorry, sire,” she said. “I did not mean to fall asleep.”

“I do not mind. You should get down now, however, so that we do not get strange looks if we meet other travellers.”

“Of course.” She slipped from his arms, though the king seemed almost reluctant to let her go. Snowflakes had begun to fall sometime during her slumber, and he pulled the hood of her cloak up carefully, as though he feared that the chill might cause her harm.

“Here is a test for you, Lady Ragna,” he said, taking her hand and leading her onto the hard-packed dirt road. “Which way do we go?”

She squinted up at the night sky, trying to discern the stars through the gathering clouds. “That way?” she hazarded, pointing in the direction she _thought_ was northward.

“Correct. We should reach Esklundr in around two hours, and then we can find somewhere to stay for the rest of the night. We can wander around town some during the morning, and if we leave by noon, we should make it to the next village by nightfall.”

“How long was I asleep?”

“An hour, give or take. We will arrive in town about an hour after midnight.”

“You carried me for an hour?” Ragna exclaimed.

“Give or take.”

He did not let go of her hand as he started down the road, and Ragna made no move to disentangle their fingers, basking in the warm glow of cautious optimism. “We look fascinating,” she observed after a moment. “Here I am, practically made in your image, and you have blue eyes and fair hair, like me.”

Loki snickered. “Odin should have disguised me like this in the first place, shouldn’t he? I would have stood out far less in the family portraits.”

“Actually, I am quite fond of the way you usually look,” Ragna informed him, trying, albeit unsuccessfully, to fight her embarrassment at the admission; it was an understatement. “I think that standing out, in your case, is a positive. In regards to your appearance, at least,” she amended. “Some of your behaviors are undoubtedly questionable.”

“I like when you do that,” he said, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye.

“When I do what?”

“When you blush so prettily, little maid. It is quite beguiling.” He grinned. “Especially when you are paying me a compliment.”

The king was flirting with her, she realized suddenly, and fearing her lack of proper experience with such things, she panicked. “I am sure that I have no idea what you are talking about, sire.”

“Ah, see? _There_ it is.”

_He sounds terribly smug,_ Ragna thought to herself. The fact that Loki seemed to feel so at-ease around her was a marvelous development, but it still caught her a little off-guard, and she did not know how to respond.

“We will meet someone coming down the road soon,” he said, peering ahead at the darkness that lay before them. “Act naturally.” He squeezed her fingers. _How am I to act naturally,_ she wondered, _when I am holding hands with you?_

“Can you see that far?” she asked instead, squinting as she tried to make out anything of note in the distance.

“No, but I can hear it.”

“Fascinating. Your hearing must be abnormally sharp, for I hear nothing but the sounds of the forest.”

Shrugging, Loki turned to glance down at her. “Perhaps it is because you are part-mortal,” he said, “or because I am Jötunn, or simply because I possess incredible powers.”

He had barely mentioned her lineage in all the time they had spent together, so to hear him refer to it so casually was a bit of a shock. In fact, hearing him mention his _own_ lineage so casually was a bit of a shock, as well. Deciding to ignore that for now, she narrowed her eyes accusingly. “Are you always looking for an excuse to brag about your vast, incomparable powers?”

“Yes,” he replied easily, lips curling up into a self-satisfied smirk. “I find that it is good to remind one’s subjects why it is that they are subjugated in the first place - who is on _top,_ so to speak.”

“Ah,” Ragna said, boldly caressing the back of his hand with her thumb, “so you are speaking to me as a king to his subject, is that so, _sire?”_

She could not tell if the darkening of his eyes was an effect of the tricky forest-shadowed light, or something more significant. “Indeed.”

There was something more that he wished to say, Ragna could practically _feel_ it, but she did not think it wise to prod him. His mood had already been incredibly variable throughout the evening, and they still had quite a long walk ahead of them.

It was not much longer until Ragna could hear their fellow traveller approaching, as well. A rickety-looking cart creaked into view shortly after, pulled by a horse that looked like it had seen better days. _This is the first person that I am seeing aside from Loki in nearly two months,_ Ragna realized. It was a bit of a letdown.

The man on the cart waved enthusiastically as soon as they’d been spotted, and Loki halted, waiting for the traveller to reach them. “Fantastic,” he muttered under his breath. “Now we have to talk.”

“You _love_ talking,” Ragna retorted, voice equally hushed. “Is that not the purpose of this entire adventure?”

He did not deign to reply, dropping her hand. For a moment, she was hurt, but then he moved slightly, nearly unnoticeably, to put himself in between her and the stranger. It seemed like a laughably unnecessary show of protection on the one hand, but on the other, Ragna was flattered by his concern.

“I did not expect to meet anyone on the road tonight!” the man exclaimed, reining in his horse once he had drawn alongside them. “Not many travel this late.”

“I had thought the same,” Loki replied, smiling easily. “We had a late start, unfortunately, but no desire to camp out in the forest.”

“No, I’d imagine not. Terrible weather moving in, looks like. Your wife?” he asked, nodding towards her. _How rude,_ Ragna thought, _speaking about me as if I am not standing right here._

“Yes,” the king lied smoothly, relaxing his defensive stance and sliding an arm about her waist.

“Lucky man,” he chuckled.

“You’ve no idea.” His fingers dug slightly into her side, and Ragna felt a flush creep up her neck, thankful that his hand was hidden by her cloak.

He studied them curiously, taking note of the light armor Loki wore and the sword at his side. “Where do you hail from, the capital city?”

“I don’t suppose you have ever heard of Galmastrond, have you?”

The man scratched his chin thoughtfully. “I believe that I may’ve. Never been, though.”

Loki laughed genially. “You have not missed out on much, friend. That is where we are travelling from, although I was stationed in the capital recently. Do you suppose we will have trouble finding accomodations once we reach the town?” he asked.

“Oh, you should have no trouble,” the man replied, easily distracted from further prying questions. “There’s rooms available above the tavern, and I doubt there are many other travellers passing through Esklundr in this weather.”

“Many thanks,” Loki replied, giving a small nod and pulling her along as he resumed walking. “Safe travels.”

“Save travels,” the man called over his shoulder, snapping his reins.

Ragna let the king lead her away, slightly miffed at the way she had been ignored. “I have never heard of Galmastrond before,” she hissed as soon as they were out of earshot.

“I should hope not, as it does not exist - not on Asgard, at least.”

Staring at him in surprise, she asked, “But then, how did that man seem to recognize the name?”

He smiled, dropping his hand from her waist and taking hold of her hand once again. “The trick with lies,” he said, “is that most people want so desperately to _believe._ No one wants to admit that they do not know something. It makes them feel inferior.”

“I will have to remember that,” she said primly, frowning in displeasure.

“Come now, my lady, do not act as though you are free from deception, not while you are essentially playing spy with me.”

“It is not the act itself,” Ragna told him. “It is more the _glee_ that it seems to bring you that I find concerning.”

“I would think that you would know by now to expect such things from me,” the king replied after a moment, something in his voice sounding almost… disappointed. Guilt washed through her; he took it as a rejection, she knew, of some part of him that was essential to his being.

“I do, God of Lies,” she soothed, squeezing his hand. “And I am grateful that you are so good at it, sire. Otherwise, we would be easily discovered, for I have no confidence in my ability to be convincing.”

He glanced at her, appearing slightly placated. “You should not doubt yourself so,” he said. “You were convincing enough at the ball, were you not?”

“I suppose, but I did not enjoy it.”

“We sometimes must do things that we do not enjoy to survive, Ragna. Do not allow it to weigh too heavily upon your mind.”

“Perhaps you are right.”

Loki smirked. “I usually am.”

 

* * *

 

Ragna had grown unused to walking for such a distance during her captivity, and before they reached the town, she had begun to consider asking the king to carry her again. Even worse, the wind had picked up significantly, and it pierced even her thick travel cloak and dress. Shivering, she had snuck a peek at Loki, but he seemed entirely unaffected. He had, however, caught her watching him.

“What is the matter?” he asked, seemingly torn from some far-away train of thought. “You are shaking.”

“Yes, and the weather is worsening.”

“It should not be much further,” he said, halting momentarily. “I had hoped that seiðr would not be necessary, but it would seem that I overestimated your stamina.” Ragna watched, transfixed, as he leaned forward, expression intent. Holding her breath, her eyes fluttered closed in nervous anticipation.

Whatever she had expected, it had not been a soft kiss on the tip of her nose. Ragna blinked in surprise as a tingling warmth spread across her skin. The chill was gone, but still she shivered, now due to the odd half-smile on the king’s face. In that moment, she wished for nothing more than to see him without any traces of his disguise. “Better?” he asked.

“Much better,” she whispered, afraid that if she said more, she would ruin the moment.

“I am glad. Come, we should keep moving. I am ready to find somewhere to sleep.”

There was a new spring in her step as they headed forward, imagining him wrapping her in his arms once they had reached their destination. “So am I.”

 

* * *

 

The little town of Esklundr was quiet and dark by the time they arrived, although the tavern was easy enough to find. A sleepy-looking young boy took their money and directed them upstairs, and Ragna breathed a sigh of relief once they were behind closed doors once again.

Loki dusted the snow off of his clothing, eying the small room critically. “It could be worse, I suppose.”

“It certainly could. Some of the smaller villages do not have private rooms, you know. We could have ended up sharing with strangers.”

His lip curled in disgust. “I believe that I would rather sleep outside.”

“How snobbish of you. Can I see the bag?”

“Help yourself.” Loki tossed it onto the small bed, then began unlacing his boots.

“Turn around?” she asked shyly, and he did so with a huff. Ragna changed quickly, shimmying out of her dress and into a loose nightgown. After a moment’s hesitation, she left her thick socks on, worried that the king might dissolve the warming charm before he fell asleep. “You may turn back around.”

“Get in bed,” he ordered, and the words sent a spiral of heat coiling through her, though she knew he meant it innocently enough. She crawled into the small bed obediently, heart pounding as Loki followed close behind. Chastising herself for thinking inappropriate things about the king, Ragna rolled to face him, regarding him carefully in the dim lamplight. “Are you not going to remove your disguise?” she asked.

“Not tonight. Imagine the uproar if someone were to stumble in here accidentally, discovering Loki Laufeyson in bed with a pretty little maiden.”

Disappointed, she frowned at him. “Will I not see your true face for the entirety of our journey, then?”

The lamps along the wall flickered out, and his arms wrapped around her, pulling her close to his chest. “We shall see. For now, you will just have to imagine it.”

Well, Ragna thought, closing her eyes, at least he _sounded_ the same. He felt just the same, as well, and she took a deep breath, appreciative of his familiar, crisp scent. She did as he said, picturing his wicked smirk and glittering green eyes, and it did not take her long to fall fast asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hmm... what could be weighing on the Allfather's mind, I wonder?  
> In other news, I have discovered the wonderful world of Tumblr... #gimmealltheLokigifs
> 
> <3 MoA


	21. The Path Unfolding

Loki was tired when he awoke, and tense, although his dreams, at least, had been mercifully empty; he supposed he had Ragna to thank for both. Propping himself up on one elbow, he trailed his fingers through her hair, missing the tangle of gold that he had grown so used to waking up to. Oh, _he_ could see beyond the spell to some extent, of course, as its creator, but it was not the _same._ If the next stop seemed secure, he decided, he might lift it before they went to bed. He was the one at greatest risk of being recognized, anyway, not her.

Although, he _did_ need to be exceptionally careful. An annoying tenacity in regards to rooting out the truth seemed to be a family trait in the line of Vör, and he had no desire to run into another one of Askr’s sons before this mission was completed and Ragna was safely stashed away again. He’d barely gotten rid of the first one without having to kill him, and the entire experience had put him into something of a panic.

Davyn Askrson seemed to be, if anything, more impetuous than his sister. First, he had challenged the Allfather’s right to send Ragna away with so little notice, then he had demanded that she be given another position back in Asgard. “If that is not an option,” he had declared, eyes fiery, “then our father is prepared to pull her from her service to the throne and arrange a betrothal to someone in _this_ _Realm,_ so that she will not be _exiled_ from her family.”

His tone was scathing, and perhaps because the man reminded him so much of Ragna, Loki had a difficult time holding back his own sharp words, hidden behind the guise of Odin Allfather. He was not entirely successful. “While I can imagine why your family would take the thought of exile so _poorly,”_ he said, eye narrowing, “I assure you that Lady Ragna was pleased with her new assignment.”

Bristling, her brother had stood, looking as if he were prepared for a fight, and Loki briefly wondered how much he should allow the man to get away with before he put his foot down. He held up a hand in warning. “Be still, boy,” he ordered. “I have a great deal of experience in dealing with brash young men driven only by their feelings. This temper of yours has no effect on me.”

Davyn stilled, although Loki could tell by the stubborn set of his jaw that he was just as determined to get what he’d come for, and it reminded him somewhat of Thor. “I am not leaving here until I receive assurance that she will be allowed to visit home soon.”

Loki stared at him, wondering why her father had not sent someone with a little more tact to address the king. “Are you truly the most diplomatic of Askr’s sons?” he asked, incredulous. “You are doing your cause no favors by behaving so recklessly in the Allfather’s court.”

“Apologies, sire, but I believe that _you_ behaved recklessly by sending her away so quickly in the first place.”

There were whispers of shock and disapproval at the loud accusation from the scattered members of the court in attendance, and Loki slammed Gungnir against the floor, groaning internally. Odin would not have let such disrespect go without consequence, and normally, Loki would have felt the same, though now he had the nagging awareness of Ragna’s potential disapproval hanging over him. “Perhaps a few days in a cell will cool this foolish youthful temper of yours,” he declared, nodding at his Einherjar to take the boy away. “You may plead your case again when you are prepared to do so appropriately.”

He nodded stiffly, allowing himself to be led away without a fuss, and Loki had barely been able to listen to the remaining petitioners, mind frantic with irritation and worry. Asgard was not a democracy; as king, he had every _right_ to do with Ragna as he wished, whether it was shipping her off to Vanaheim like he’d claimed or tossing her in the dungeon. If he _had_ decided to execute her, in the beginning, no one could have stopped him. It bothered him, then, to be challenged so openly, even if he understood that the motivations behind it were noble. He had never thought very highly of noble motivations.

It had also shocked him a bit to realize that, despite his constant plotting and endless contingency plans, he had never fully considered what would happen to Ragna if he were caught, or if he suddenly had to flee the Realm Eternal. Tainted irrevocably by mere association, she would never be welcomed back into the noble folds of Asgardian society; he was sure of that. Really, she would be lucky to escape without a worse punishment than social ostracism. Seeing her brother had been a slap in the face, a brutal wake-up call. The thought of her losing _everything_ because of him… it hurt, and a heavy weight settled in Loki’s chest, certain that he was in the process of ruining the life of one of the only people that mattered to him.

Because she _did_ matter to him. This was a truth that, no matter how dearly he wished it, he could not deny.

And so he lied, and he had not told her that her brother had come, knowing how painful the refusal to let her see him would be, but certain that he could not allow the risk - not yet, at least. And he had been harsh and biting, trying, at least for a few moments, to toughen her up for a likely eventuality. She had outplayed him once again, making mention of her _feelings,_ feelings that Loki dearly craved, though he knew he shouldn’t, and he had given in.

But he still had not told her that her brother had come, and that he was currently occupying a space in Asgard’s dungeons. That was an admission to be avoided at all costs.

The object of his distress and his devotion opened bleary eyes, smiling at him, and the weight in his chest grew heavier. “Did you sleep well?” he asked.

Ragna smiled cheekily, attempting to stretch, though the bed was really too small to allow it. “Well enough. The accommodations certainly do not compare to those of the Allfather, I must admit.”

Loki could not hold back a laugh at that. “I fear that I’ve allowed you to become spoiled, little girl.” Ragna merely hummed in acknowledgement, sitting up and fidgeting with her hair, now come half-undone from the braid he had so generously made for her. Discomfort flooded through him at the memory; _why_ would he do such a thing? What had possessed him, and why had he not just taken care of it with seiðr?

_You know why,_ his conscious whispered. _You are seeking out every plausible excuse to touch her._

As he sat up beside her, he could almost see the exact second she remembered that she was in another body, as she stared at the black strands twirled around her fingers with a mixture of surprise and fascination. Perhaps there was even a bit of disappointment mixed in, as well. Loki could not entirely empathize; he had never experienced the distress that, for many young sorcerers, came along with changing forms for the first few times. He supposed it was with good reason, as he was only ever trading one false face for another. Bitterness coursed through him.

_Has she ever even_ seen _a Frost Giant?_ he wondered suddenly, gaze flickering down to where his pale hands rested in his lap. She seemed surprisingly unconcerned by his true nature, but then again, she had never seen him in all of his blue, icy glory. If Loki had it his way, she never would.

“What are you thinking, sire?”

“Nothing important,” he replied. “We should leave soon. I would like to have a look around before we head on to the next village.”

“It will take almost no time at all to get ready,” Ragna said, narrowing her eyes playfully. “Though I must ask you to look away.”

“Why?” Loki whispered tauntingly, leaning towards her. “I have seen it all before.” His eyes widened in horror as he realized that he’d actually said that aloud, a brief second before a pillow slammed into his face.

It hadn’t been a hard blow, but he still felt a bit dazed. _What is happening to me?_ he wondered. _Am I going mad?_

“Perhaps you _are_ a rake,” Ragna called over her shoulder as she sauntered to the door in her nightgown, “I am going to find the bath chamber.”

 

* * *

 

It was still snowing when they headed outside again, though there were now plenty of townsfolk hustling and bustling about in the cold. There was a semi-covered marketplace that seemed to be a popular destination, and Loki decided that it would be an excellent place to start.

“Honey tea!” Ragna called out excitedly, grabbing his hand and towing him towards a nearby stall; he decided to allow it. “Two please, sir,” she said to the vendor, turning hesitantly back to him as the man went to pour their mugs. “Um… money, please? _Dear?”_

Rolling his eyes, the god pulled a small purse from his belt. “Here, _darling,”_ he drawled, dropping it into her waiting hands. “Anything to make you happy.”

She smiled, pulling out a few coins and sliding them across the counter. “This is delicious,” she said, offering him a wooden mug. “You will like it.” He did like it, syrupy though it was, but he knew that it would make her smug, so he did not admit it.

“The secret,” the tea-seller declared proudly, “is our own local honey. You are not from here?”

“No,” Loki replied. “We are only passing through.”

The man glanced down at the weapon at Loki’s side. “A sellsword?” he inquired. “We have seen quite a few passing through, of late.”

“Hardly,” he smiled. “Though perhaps I should consider it, as my lady has very expensive tastes.”

Ragna shot him a disapproving look, but the tea-seller laughed. “If I were a younger man, I might consider it, myself. Or if I had such a pretty lady to keep.” He winked at the girl, though it was good-natured enough that it did not bother the god too greatly. “I hear that Lord Agviðr pays his men well.”

“Really?” Loki’s expression was guileless. “I have not traveled in these parts in quite some time, but I do not recall his lordship keeping a particularly noticeable force at his castle.”

“Oh, you know how it goes.” The man turned back to stir a bubbling pot over the fire. “Something dramatic happens in the capital, and then all the nobles suddenly decide that they are the great defenders of the realm, irreplaceable symbols of Asgardian might.” He shook his head, as if the posturing of the upper classes was a subject of both distaste and amusement.

“Are they not?”

“I would say that the princes are, or _were,”_ he corrected. Loki tensed slightly to hear himself so casually grouped with Thor, though he supposed he _had_ technically died a ‘hero’ - the second time, at least; his first ‘death’ had been far less noble.

Ragna’s free hand slipped around his arm. “When there is a void in power,” she chimed in, “there will always be eager lords ready to fill it.”

“Well said, miss. If you _are_ interested,” he added, turning once again to Loki, “I know that there was a group that came into town last night with that purpose in mind. Perhaps you will encounter them along the road.”

After exchanging a few more pleasantries, he led Ragna away, ready to explore more of the market. “We should leave soon,” she said. “If the tea merchant was correct, then we might be able to learn more from the mercenaries en route.”

“I agree, but they will have to pass by us to reach the main road out of town. I’ll keep an eye out.” He looked down at her upturned face, smiling slightly at her obvious excitement. “Just enjoy being outside, Ragna.”

“If you insist.”

She was delighted, he could tell, and it made him want to do something more. “What would you like?” he asked. “What trinkets would amuse you?”

“I did not realize that this was a shopping trip.”

“Consider it a part of the disguise.”

“Very well.” They walked past a few more stalls, mostly containing various types of food and drink, and Ragna hefted the purse he’d given her in her palm thoughtfully. “Food for the road?”

“Why not?” Loki watched with a sort of patient benevolence as the little maid darted from shop to shop, collecting various dried fruits and cheeses in a rather bright, shapeless bag that she’d taken a liking to; he considered reminding her of the small fortune in blood-money that he had gifted to her, since she seemed rather intent on being frugal with his purse. Surely she knew that he did not care how much she spent, did she not?

“Dear,” she called, waving him over to a booth displaying a less-than-impressive array of weaponry. “May I purchase this?”

His eyes trailed to where she pointed, then shot back to her, quizzical. “You desire a _switchblade,_ my lady? Should I be concerned?”

“Only if you make me cross,” she teased, eyes crinkling in amusement.

“You do not _need_ it,” Loki asserted, but then he remembered her bursting in the bathing chamber, brandishing her flute as if it might somehow impede an assailant, and he quickly relented. “But you may buy it.”

The thing was cheap and simple; he could have given her far better from one of the palace weapons vaults, but if it made her feel safer on their trip, how could he refuse? He _had_ just warned her of the dangers of being with him only a day before, so perhaps this was a sign that she had taken his words to heart.

“Look!” she exclaimed a little while later, drawing his attention from where he unobtrusively eavesdropped on fellow shoppers. Grabbing his hand, Ragna pulled him over to a stall where various trinkets were on display. His stomach lurched as soon as he saw what had caught the girl’s attention - two tiny pendants, displayed side by side. One was his brother’s hammer, and the other was, very clearly, meant to represent his helm. Loki swallowed thickly; why would the common folk purchase such a thing? He was a _Frost Giant,_ not a true son of Asgard; he was no good-luck charm.

“Do not even _think_ of getting that thing,” he whispered sharply, bringing his lips close to her ear so that he would not be overheard.

“For all you know, I was admiring Mjolnir,” Ragna replied breezily, brushing past him as he grimaced. How she _loved_ working her way under his skin! In a huff, he allowed the girl to wander a short distance away, though he kept watch out of the corner of his eye. When he took note of a skinny young man eyeing her from across the way, Loki decided to hold himself back, curious to see what might happen.

The boy wore rather old-looking leather armor, and a sword was strapped to his back. His red hair was tied up in a loose knot at the nape of his neck, and he had a rather gangly look about him. _One of the mercenaries?_ Loki wondered, sidling slightly closer to where his lady stood, her attention fixed on a potter spinning fresh clay on his wheel.

“Pardon me, miss,” the boy said, clearly startling her.

“Yes?” Her smile was friendly, but Loki could see her tension in the way that she gripped the strap of her bag.

“I noticed that you seem attired for travel, and I thought that I might inquire as to which direction you are heading; I would hate to see a young lady journey unaccompanied.”

Rolling his eyes, Loki decided that he had nothing to worry about, and he started to move towards them when her voice, surprisingly coy, took him by surprise. “How kind of you to ask, sir. I am, in fact, traveling northwards.” Pausing for a moment, she snuck a peek at his sword, appearing convincingly impressed. “Are you a soldier, if I may ask?”

Puffing up a bit, the boy replied, “Something to that effect, miss. My party is also traveling north, to join Lord Agviðr’s private army.”

“How intriguing!” she exclaimed, smiling disarmingly. “My husband and I would love to accompany you. I am sure that you have many fascinating stories to tell.” Loki saw the boy deflate slightly at the mention of a husband, and he struggled to contain his satisfied smirk. Ragna turned to search for him. “Husband,” she chirped, “come and meet…”

She waited expectantly. “Frár,” the boy supplied.

“Meet Frár, who is also journeying northwards along the road and has graciously invited us to join him.”

“Einar,” Loki said, extending a hand, which the boy shook with little enthusiasm. “It is always nice to meet fellow travellers. Drǫfn enjoys having more conversational partners than just myself.”

He saw Ragna’s eyes narrow slightly at their aliases; she would have liked to pick her own false name, he knew, but at least he had chosen a pretty one. _Complain,_ he though wickedly, _and next time, I will give you a long, solemn name like Hróðgærða._

Taking her hand, Loki gestured for the boy to lead the way, and they accompanied him through the market in search of his companions. Frár, they learned, hailed from a small agrarian town near the capital, and he was highly unsatisfied with the farming life. _A would-be hero,_ Loki thought, slightly disdainful. He let Ragna steer the bulk of the conversation; she seemed more than happy to do so.

The rest of the mercenarial hopefuls were equally unimpressive, at least in the god’s expert opinion. Of the lot, only two looked like they had any real fighting experience - a rather large, bearded man named Afli, and a stocky grey-haired man with a scar across his face named Baugr. They seemed happy enough to have additional travellers join them, and the party set off on the road slightly earlier than Loki had originally planned.

He allowed the conversation to flow towards the mercenaries’ destination eventually, and he affected interest. “How much does the lord offer his men in wages?”

Baugr grunted in amusement. “More than the crown offers you, Einherji.”

Tamping down his irritation at what Loki considered a personal insult (for he felt that he paid his armies rather generously), he asked, “And what are the risks? We are far from the borders; Does Lord Agviðr worry about his holdings?”

Shrugging, the more-jovial Afli replied, “Does it really matter, Sir Einar? If he can afford the cost, then no risk is too great.” Loki’s lips thinned. _If you believe that,_ he thought, _you do not know true risk._

Ragna squeezed his hand, as if she could feel his frustration mounting. “I wonder if he has been having trouble with raiders,” she said, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “My sister wrote to me that there were rumors of raiders attacking some of the northern farming villages, but I dismissed it as fantasy.”

“No, that is a possibility,” Frár agreed, speeding up so that he stood directly on the girl’s other side. Could he not see that she was holding her _husband’s_ hand? He was beginning to grate on Loki’s nerves.

“You truly believe so?”

“I think that it is a very good guess, Drǫfn. I have kin in the midlands, and they have heard similar rumors of suspicious activity around the borders. With everything that happened when the Svartálfar attacked… well, some of the lords are liable to be antsy.”

“But the Svartálfar were entirely destroyed,” Loki interrupted, “and while the attack was devastating, Odin Allfather still sits on the throne. The restoration efforts in the capital are actually ahead of schedule.”

“The Dark Elves are far from the only enemies of Asgard,” the scrawny redhead retorted. “The Jötnar still exist, for one.”

Struck with the fleeting urge to freeze the boy mid-stride, Loki grit his teeth. “The Jötnar have been at peace with Asgard since Laufey died. Their realm sustained substantial damage when the Bifrost was turned against it; Queen Fárbauti would jeopardize their efforts to rebuild if she antagonized the Allfather now.”

“Only a fool would trust a treaty with a Frost Giant.”

Loki’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “You would call the Allfather a fool?”

“My mother always told me that politics were a tricky subject for first meetings,” Ragna chimed in, chuckling lightly, evidently attempting to ease some of the building tension. “I suppose that we should simply be thankful that there are so many who are ready to defend the Realm Eternal.” She smiled at both of them, and Frár seemed content to let the matter drop. Loki thought him terribly weak for it; Norns knew that he never let his arguments with the little handmaiden go so easily.

He tried to be friendly for the remainder of their time together, really, he did, but he found the mercenaries insufferable, particularly the boy who kept attempting to flirt with _his_ maiden, and he grew more reticent as the day wore long. When the men announced that they were taking a fork in the path to head to another small village nearby to meet up with some of their other companions, Loki bid them farewell with a feeling of overwhelming relief.

“Alone again,” he breathed, sliding his arm once again around Ragna’s waist; he felt much more at-ease, he realized, when she was pressed up against him.

“Today was… interesting,” she said, tentatively sliding her arm around him, as well. “You were _not_ at your most charming, sire, if I may be so bold.”

“I did not beat any of those half-rate soldiers into a bloody pulp,” he replied. “That is as charming as they deserved. Besides, girl, you did a perfectly fine job of keeping the conversation going on your own.”

“Perhaps _I_ should be called Silvertongue, then.” Her tone was playful, and Loki saw her eyes twinkle as she glanced up at him.

He bent his head, leaning close to whisper in her ear, for he loved the way that it always made her blush. “I do not believe that is a title that you wish to challenge, my lady.” Loki felt her shiver slightly, and he straightened his back, triumphant.

For a time, he was able to focus simply on _existing_ alongside her, and he pushed his irritation from the day aside. However, the weather soon worsened, and Loki’s temper along with it. He was famished, and he was certain that she was, too, but they had gone through most of their snacks already. In any case, he did not wish to stop; even with Ragna’s warming charm keeping her from feeling the cold too terribly, he knew that the sharp wind and the damp snow were beginning to take their toll.

It had been dark for several hours when they finally reached the next town, a tiny place less than half the size of Esklundr. The storm was truly beginning to set in, and all of the windows were shuttered, giving the place an air of semi-desertion, save for the smoke trailing weakly from the chimneys. Fortunately, the tavern was one of the largest establishments along the road, and as such, was easy enough to find. Shoving open the door, he guided Ragna inside, slamming it shut again before too much snow could follow them.

The tavern was small and filled with a noticeable aroma of smoke and baking bread; Ragna probably would describe it as ‘quaint’ or ‘homey,’ but Loki found it entirely lacklustre. However, in such a rural area, he did not have the ability to be more choosy, and he decided that it would have to do. Leading Ragna by the hand, he approached the rickety bar counter at the back of the room, where a ruddy-faced older man stood watching him with a less-than-welcoming expression.

“Do you have any rooms available for just the night?” he asked bluntly, for the tavernkeep did not look to be the type for friendly chatter. Ragna must have thought him rude, and he felt her stiffen at his side.

The man looked between the two of them slowly, and Loki’s impatience spiked. It had been a long day, and he wanted to wrap himself in the little maiden’s embrace and fall asleep, not waste more time dealing with country rubes. “This is a family establishment…” the tavernkeep began, and Loki was about to ask what in _Hel_ he was talking about when Ragna squeezed his hand and cut in.

“Thank the Norns for that!” she exclaimed, smiling brightly. “You cannot imagine, sir, some of the places that we have had to stay, and with our journey not even half over.”

A woman appeared suddenly, holding an empty tray, and she was so alike to the tavernkeep in form that Loki could not decipher if they were spouses, or siblings. “What’s this, then? Young travellers, out in _this_ weather?”

“Yes,” Ragna replied, blushing prettily as she placed a hand on her stomach. “It could not wait, I’m afraid. I insisted we reach my family home before I grow too large to travel comfortably.”

Were Loki not such a practiced deceiver himself, he was certain that his face would clearly show his shock at such a bold lie. “You poor dear, travelling in your condition!” the older woman cried, ushering the little goddess closer to the hearth and launching into a hundred inane questions.

He slammed his money down on the counter, trying to contain his glare. “Will this do?”

The tavernkeep nodded, expression still slightly unwelcoming. “Up the stairs, down the hall, last room on the left.”

“Thank you,” Loki managed, pausing for a moment to collect Ragna from the other woman before tugging her upstairs. “So,” he said, turning to regard her critically once the door was safely bolted behind them, “I understand congratulations are in order.”

Ragna turned scarlet. “I had to say something!” she hissed. _“They thought I was a prostitute.”_

Scoffing, he asked, “And why would they think that, my lady?”

“Really, Loki, for someone who can be so frighteningly charming, you sometimes demonstrate a _complete_ lack of people skills. A young soldier comes storming in shortly after nightfall, a woman in tow who is _clearly_ not a local, rudely demanding a bed? He was going to throw us out on the street, and you would have started a terrible brawl.”

“Ah.” She had a point, as she usually did, though the god was loath to admit it. He dissolved her glamour with a wave, eager to see her true face again, and was amused to find that her blush was still firmly in place. “Well, now they think that I have you in the family way, little maiden. Does that not offend your delicate sensibilities?”

“It was a good excuse,” she muttered, “and you know it.”

He hummed in half-hearted acknowledgement. “Rest, darling,” he said sarcastically, eager to get as much teasing out of the situation as possible. “I will go find us something to eat, as I would hate for you to exert yourself in your _condition.”_ The scarf she threw barely missed his head as he slipped out of the door, still snickering.

 

* * *

 

There _may_ have been some merit to her lie, he begrudgingly noted, hauling an armload of blankets and a basket of food back up the rickety stairs. Apparently, expectant young mothers afforded a higher quality of service than the common travelling soldier. The woman downstairs seemed intent to fuss over them, telling him repeatedly to let her know if they needed anything. Loki could not decide if this irritated him, or pleased him.

He should have knocked, he realized, as he burst into the room to find Ragna in a state of half-undress, just in time to catch a glimpse of her smooth waist and pretty legs before her nightgown fell to hide them away again. For just a moment, his overeager mind allowed him to picture her according to her lie, a gentle swell to her belly as she carried his child.

Horrified, he immediately banished the thought, though Loki still felt himself burn with a sort of guilty heat when she turned towards him with a curious expression, likely wondering why he was still hovering by the door. “The fruits of your deception,” he announced, placing his burden on the small bed and dragging the tiny side table close for their dinner.

“You did not pay for all of this?” she asked, a bit alarmed.

“The woman would not let me pay for all of it,” he replied. “And truly, as a young Einherji with a child on the way, I was in no position to refuse the charity, was I?”

“Will you let that go?”

“No,” he said. “Besides, you are right - it is a good excuse.”

“Thank you, sire,” she said softly, and for some reason he could not explain, her smug little smirk made him desperately want to kiss her.

“I am starving,” he declared instead. “Let us eat.”

 

* * *

 

The bed was really no more than a cot, although Ragna had declared it snug enough, once all of the additional blankets had been added. Loki curled around her small sleeping form, listening to the wind raging outside as his fingers slid around her waist, finding it very difficult to surrender himself to sleep.

He never would have expected the intensity of his response to the thought of Ragna with child, but now, he found it nearly impossible to drive the image from his overworked mind. It was wrong to even picture such a thing, he was certain; out of all of the outcomes Loki knew he deserved, a happy ending with a perfect little family was not among them. No, Fate would not be kind to Loki, not in the end. He had no doubts about that.

Still, as he rubbed soothing circles against her stomach and listened to her quiet breathing, Loki allowed himself the sin of daydreaming. He imagined them strolling about the halls of the palace in the light of day, hand in hand, a golden circlet nestled in her hair. He imagined Thor, roaring with disbelief and delight at the news that he would be an uncle, and for a moment, he pictured Odin and Frigga there, beaming with pride. He imagined the chaos that his brood was certain to cause, running rampant through the palace with a potent combination of unpracticed seiðr and scientific curiosity. He imagined Ragna, glowing and radiant as he pulled her into their bed after a long night of dancing and feasting, intent on devouring her, as well.

And _if_ he shed a tear, it did not matter, for there was no one there to see it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've said it before, and I'll say it again: THANK YOU for all of your wonderful comments! <3


	22. The Tavern Window

The king had been in an odd mood all day, and it was beginning to wear on Ragna’s patience. He had been watching her when she awoke, his nose merely inches from her own, his expression open and surprisingly vulnerable. Then his face shuttered, and he rolled away from her, sitting up abruptly. Had she not known better, Ragna might have said that Loki looked almost _guilty._

There had been no teasing or playfulness that morning, and he seemed eager to leave the place as soon as possible. He’d restored her disguise with a wave, then told her to get dressed as he stormed out of the tiny room. She had obeyed, hoping that his temper would improve once they were ready to start out on the road again.

It did not. In fact, when he came back with their breakfast, he looked even more stone-faced than before. _Something_ was clearly bothering him, but he did not offer an explanation, and Ragna did not ask. They ate quickly, and they took their leave from the tavern only an hour or so after dawn.

“Consider what I said, Einherji,” the tavernkeep called out as they made their way to the door. Ragna glanced up at the king’s face in confusion, but he did not pause; the only sign that he’d even registered the words was a slight thinning of his lips.

“What did he mean?” she whispered as he took her arm and led her back onto the main road.

His grip tightened. “It was nothing, girl.”

She did not believe him.

 

* * *

 

After a while, with nothing to distract her from Loki’s stoic silence, her mind began to run rampant with possible reasons for his ire. Did he change his mind about the efficiency of her lie, or was he perhaps angry simply because she went off-script without consulting him? Had something happened with the tavernkeep? But no, he had seemed odd ever since they first awoke…

Ragna blushed suddenly, sneaking a glance at the king by her side. She had not done something _untoward_ in her sleep, had she? Or said something indicative of her dreams? Loki noticed her watching him, and she quickly looked away, heat creeping up her neck.

Her dreams were becoming something of an issue, in truth. They had been careful to keep to certain boundaries ever since _that_ night, but her slumbering mind was not so easily constrained. In her dreams, she was plagued by memories of his hands, of his mouth, his _voice…_ Except, unlike their ill-fated encounter in the waking world, in her dreams, Loki whispered adoration. In her dreams, he _loved_ her.

 _But things have been pleasant enough, have they not?_ Yes, it was all going better than Ragna had any right to expect; the king was making a concentrated effort to trust her, to treat her as something of an equal. He had even admitted that he wanted her by his side. But she was greedy, and she wanted _more._ She _needed_ more.

Keeping her eyes on the road ahead, she carefully took his hand in her own, twining her fingers through his. Ragna could feel his eyes on her, and she forced a smile. “It is after noon,” she said brightly. “Would you like to stop and eat?”

Loki heaved a sigh. “Will it not be too unpleasant for you, sitting out in this weather?”

Her face scrunched up in consideration. “Well, that is a fair point, but I could also use a rest.”

“We will eat as we walk,” he said with finality. “And if you grow too weary, I will carry you.”

It was an unexpected response; he had barely spoken to her all day, and now he was prepared to carry her again? Was he truly in so great a hurry to make it to the next village? “As you wish, sire.”

Eating while they walked in the building snow and wind was not the most pleasant of circumstances, but they managed, and Ragna was able to keep pace for a few more hours; however, keeping pace with the king was no easy task, and she eventually began to lag behind. Loki noticed, and he halted, an odd expression on his face.

“Come,” he said, holding out his arms.

“That really is not necessary-“ Ragna began to protest, but the king cut her off.

“You are slowing us down.”

Cocking her head to the side, she studied him, trying to get a better read on his mood. He did not seem _angry -_ at least, not at her. “Alright,” she conceded, albeit a bit hesitantly. She had to figure out a way to make him talk. The king swept her up into his arms, tucking her close to his chest, and immediately resumed walking. _It is as if I weigh nothing,_ she marvelled. “Are you no longer concerned about the attention this may draw from fellow travellers?”

“It seems that now, we have a reasonable excuse.”

“We do?”

His expression was cool, but Ragna thought that she could hear the slightest hint of amusement in his tone. “Yes. I am but the stereotypical beleaguered husband, forced to travel under ill conditions by his nagging, tyrannical wife.”

Her mouth fell open in outrage. “I am not _tyrannical.”_

“Yet here we are.”

She realized then that he was purposefully trying to vex her, trying to forestall any further conversation. _Well,_ thought Ragna, wrapping her arms around his neck with a determined frown, _that is not going to work._ “Why are you in such a sour mood today, _Einar?”_ she asked.

The king glanced down at her, apparently startled that she had gone directly to the crux of the matter. _“Dear_ Drǫfn, I have no idea what you mean.”

“Oh, really? You have been rather surly ever since I awoke.”

“Is that what you think? I would consider myself exceptionally charming, but if you disagree…” Ragna squeaked in protest as she felt his grip begin to slacken, tightening her own hold on his neck. Her descent halted almost as quickly as it had begun.

“If you believe that pretending to drop me will silence me, my lord,” she huffed, “then you are sadly mistaken.”

“Perhaps I should not pretend, then.”

“Tell me what the tavernkeep said to you.”

Loki glared, and for a moment, Ragna feared that he might go through with his threat. “No.”

“Please.”

Sighing, the king looked away. “He made further disparaging remarks in regards to my honor.”

That was not the entirety of it, she was certain, but it was something. “Why would he say such things?”

“Apparently, I seem the type to secret my mistress away somewhere remote to hide any illegitimate offspring. The country folk do not _approve_ of such courtly licentiousness.”

“Is that all?” Ragna cried. “It is all just make-believe, in the first place. I cannot understand why it would bother you so greatly.”

“I simply do not enjoy being judged by _peasants,”_ he replied disdainfully, and she realized that she was becoming quite skilled at telling when the god was lying - or rather, when he was omitting part of the truth.

“You told me that you do not consider yourself an honorable man,” Ragna pointed out, still confused as to why such a thing would matter to Loki, of all people; the God of Lies practically prided himself on his untrustworthiness.

“No.” He looked almost frustrated as he met her eyes, “But I am trying.” _Oh._ Burying her face against his chest, she smiled slightly.  “Does my discomfort amuse you?”

“Of course not, my lord. I am simply appreciative of your efforts.”

He walked in silence for a time, apparently lost deep in thought, and Ragna allowed herself to drift away in her own musings. One more night spent in a village, and then they should reach their destination the next day; most nobles accepted weary travellers into their halls, and she had no doubt that Lord Agviðr did the same. Naturally, Loki would wish to stay there, as it would give him the opportunity to sneak about the castle, but Ragna dreaded it. She feared encountering someone she knew from court, and while she was becoming worryingly adept at deception, she did not know how she would fare under constant scrutiny.

Moreover, she had no doubt that they would meet Frár and his party again, and she did not know how much longer she would be able to keep Loki from tearing the boy’s throat out. It was not as if she had not _noticed_ Frár’s attentions, but they did not bother her. With the King of the Nine Realms at her side, pretending to be her spouse, some stranger’s flirtations were the least of her worries. How the king _reacted_ to them, on the other hand, was another matter entirely.

“My lord,” she said, deciding to address the matter in advance, “when we do finally arrive at Agviðr’s estate, what is your plan? What story should we tell?”

“The same one we have already been telling, girl. You merely embellished our original excuse; we are still Einar and Drǫfn, a soldier and his lady en route to her family’s home.”

“We will likely encounter the mercenaries again, you know.”

“Yes, I know.” For the first time that day, Ragna saw a smirk curl across his lips. “Hopefully, the revelation that you are carrying my child will cool that pathetic redhead’s ardor.”

“Is there anything else I should know, before we arrive?”

“I would prefer if you refrained from inventing any more children,” Loki said smoothly, his voice betraying a hint of laughter. “How much do you know of Agviðr?”

“Very little. I believe that I saw him once at court, as a child. He is only a few centuries older than us, is he not?”

“Closer to a millennia older, actually, but he is still relatively young to be a ruling lord.”

“So says the _younger_ man who is currently ruling the Nine Realms as Allfather.”

At that, the king’s smile could no longer be contained, and Ragna felt warmth speed through her at the welcome sight of it. “But darling, you must remember that I am Loki of Asgard, burdened with _glorious_ purpose.”

“You sound as though you have said that before.”

“Oh, I have,” he replied, voice wry. “Back on the subject at hand,” he continued, “Agviðr’s father died very young in battle, and he has been in charge of this region, at least officially, since boyhood.”

“And unofficially?”

“From what I understand, his mother dictated most of the day-to-day operations of their holdings for centuries. I cannot help but wonder if he is finally attempting to make a name for himself.”

“Raising an army and attempting to assassinate the king seem like rather _extreme_ ways to make a name for oneself,” Ragna commented, and Loki’s sudden bark of laughter startled her.

“Do they?” he asked, eyes glittering in amusement.

She realized belatedly that she was essentially describing what he had done. “I suppose you tend to gravitate towards extremes.”

“Apparently, my lady, so do you.”

There was a quality in his voice that made her shiver slightly, and she wiggled in his arms. “You have carried me for quite some time, my lord. I am perfectly well-rested now.”

The king’s grip tightened. “We are making better time this way, and direct contact makes the warming charm more effective.”

Ragna was not entirely sure if that was the truth, but she had no way to dispute it, and being carried _was_ more pleasant than walking; the snow was truly beginning to accumulate on the road now, and she had no desire to slog through it. Instead, she closed her eyes and plotted.

It was true that Loki might not return the full depth of her feelings for him, but she was convinced that he felt _something,_ and Ragna was determined to uncover what it was. He had sworn that he would never touch her again, but then, he had also demanded a kiss in exchange for allowing her to accompany him on this trip, and he had been relatively affectionate and protective along the way. What did he actually _want_ from her?

And how might she find out?

 

* * *

 

The king was eventually convinced to set her back on her feet, and Ragna trudged alongside him as speedily as she was able, determined not to slow them down too greatly. They made the next village well before night fell, and Loki led them to an inn that looked a bit worn-down, even by Ragna’s rather generous standards; she had honestly expected more from a town so near to the local lord’s estate.

He paid extra for a private room, and while Ragna might’ve teased him for his haughtiness in most circumstances, she was actually quite thankful for it in this particular case. The inn seemed to be filled with rough, brawling, questionable types - yet another surprise, as she typically expected for the establishments nearer to castles and regional capitals to seem slightly more… lawful. In their holdings in Ringsfjord, at least, the rowdier rungs of society tended to stay as far away from the oversight of her father and mother as possible.

“Do you not wish to go out and explore?” she inquired, setting her small embroidered bag down on the bed.

“I do,” Loki replied with a slightly-conflicted expression, “but I need for you to stay here.”

“Alone?” She winced, embarrassed; her voice had risen as if she were frightened, and she did not wish for the king to think her any weaker than he already did.

“Yes, I’m afraid so. This village affords the opportunity to mingle in places where a lady’s presence is neither appropriate, nor welcome.”

Ragna’s eyes narrowed. “What _sorts_ of places?”

Releasing a heavy sigh, Loki rummaged in their pack, ignoring her gaze. “I intend to go drink and gamble, and to lose rather miserably. This inspires confidence in arrogant fools, who then begin to spill their secrets. You would be extremely out-of-place.”

“Disguise me, then. I can play a ruffian convincingly enough.”

He snorted, pulling a tiny pouch out of the bag and sliding it… somewhere. Ragna was not entirely certain if he had simply moved too quickly for her eyes to follow, or if he’d made the thing vanish in thin air. “I think not. It is safer here, and it will keep me from having to watch over you all night.”

Frowning, Ragna sat heavily upon the bed, which creaked with startling loudness at the sudden weight. “As His Majesty commands,” she muttered, feeling mutinous.

The king laughed, patting her on the head dismissively. “That is correct - as _I_ command. You may go get something to eat, but do not leave the inn, and do not linger outside this room. Bar the door, and if _anything_ worrisome happens, use the ring.”

“Yes, sire.”

“Good girl,” he said with a smirk, and then he left, and Ragna was alone with her thoughts once again. It was far from ideal, and within the hour, she began to feel maddeningly frustrated. What did he expect for her to _do,_ stare at the wall all night long?

Deciding that she was hungry enough to give herself an excuse to explore a bit, she arose, slinging her bag back over her shoulder and peering out into the hallway with slight apprehension. She had not really been left to move about on her own since, well… when _was_ the last time? _The ball,_ she realized, and remembering the sensation of someone watching her from the shadows that had preluded her near-miss with death, she shivered.

But no one even knew she was here, and the king would never have left her alone if he truly suspected that something dangerous might happen. Emboldened by this certainty, Ragna headed down the creaking stairs and into the main room of the inn, which seemed to function as something of a nondescript tavern. There were only a few other female travellers present, and she attracted a few lingering glances; she twisted the ring on her finger anxiously.

“What can I help you with, love?” asked a rail-thin, pigtailed girl not much older than herself, suddenly appearing at her elbow with a pitcher in hand.

Attempting to smile, though the girl’s appearance had, in fact, startled her quite badly, Ragna’s fingers dug into the strap of her bag. “I would like to purchase something for dinner, miss, when you have a moment.”

The girl snickered. “My, aren’t _you_ the polite one? We do not get much of that here. Have a seat, my lady, and I’ll be right out.”

Ragna nodded, maintaining her pleasant expression as she turned to search for a table, though on the inside, she worried that she had made a misstep; she remembered Loki’s assertion that she would be noticeably out-of-place if she accompanied him, and her mood soured further.

After a quick scan of the room, she located a small table that was unoccupied and close to the fire, and she settled in to wait, brooding over the fact that the king, despite his seemingly-constant paranoia, had seen fit to leave her behind. Before long, the serving-girl reappeared, tray in hand. “Here you are, my lady,” she said, setting it down on the table.

“Thank you,” Ragna replied, and the girl grinned and turned to leave, but then she seemed to hesitate. Glancing around the room, Ragna could guess as to why; many of the other patrons seemed to be far into their cups already, and she suspected they offered very little in the way of conversation. “Would you like to join me?” she ventured. “I confess, I am starved for company.”

The girl’s eyes lit up, and she glanced over her shoulder. “Give me a moment,” she said, and then she hurried away to the back room.

More hungry than she’d realized, Ragna went ahead and dug into her stew, watching the goings-on around her surreptitiously as she did. Several armored men were playing cards at a table nearby, though none of them were dressed in military-issued gear. _Former soldiers?_ she wondered. A bearded man with a tattooed head suddenly roared in victory, sweeping a pile of coins and trinkets across the table, and she could not help but stare.

A plate thunked down on the table across from her, and she glanced up to find that the serving-girl had returned, her own dinner in hand. “Gyra,” she said, offering her hand across the table.

“Drǫfn,” Ragna replied, taking her hand as a pang of regret for the deception swept through her. “I am glad that you decided to join me. Otherwise, I might’ve gone mad from boredom.”

Gyra laughed, taking a huge bite from a loaf of bread she’d brought out with her dinner; Ragna surmised that she did not take breaks to eat very often. “You could’ve joined Skurge’s crew playing at cards,” she said, inclining her head towards the rowdy table that Ragna had been watching.

“Skurge?” The name was not Asgardian. In fact, it was not _anything_ that she recognized.

“I have never heard him introduce himself as anything else, and he comes here often. Used to serve in the Allfather’s army. It’s all he speaks of, actually. Ask him about Vanaheim sometime.” She rolled her eyes, and Ragna giggled, suddenly overwhelmed with the realization of just how much she’d _missed_ the gossip of her friends at court.

“Are they always this loud?”

“Usually louder,” Gyra whispered. “You have no idea, my lady, the types we get in this place.”

“Oh?”

She nodded. “Former soldiers and mercenaries, mostly. The man you came with - an Einherji? - is he your husband?”

“He is an Einherji, though he is on leave currently,” Ragna replied, “and he is my husband.”

“Lucky you, if you don’t mind me saying so, Drǫfn.”

Had Ragna been feeling more generous towards the king, she might’ve replied, _“You have no idea.”_ Instead, she said, “I am actually quite vexed with him, at the moment; he left me here while he goes to seek more _lucrative_ entertainment.”

Gyra tsked sympathetically. “A gambler? I suppose you can never judge how much trouble a man is based on his face alone.”

“I begin to believe the more handsome, the more troublesome,” Ragna joked, and the other girl snorted into mug.

“I only hope that I will have the chance to test your theory someday, my lady. The pickings here are slim.” She glanced around the room critically, and Ragna grinned; chatting with Gyra made her feel a bit more like her old self, and her mind took a rebellious turn.

“Gyra,” she said hesitantly, leaning slightly across the table, “where _might_ an Einherji looking for mischief end up in this town?”

“The Speckled Boar would be my most likely guess, this early in the night. It is two streets over, three doors to the left.” Her eyes glittered mischievously. “Do you mean to hunt your man down?”

“I would prefer to see that he is not causing _too_ much trouble. We still have quite a long journey ahead.”

“Borrow my cloak, then; it will be less noticeable, and it is cold enough out that you can keep the hood up.”

 

* * *

 

A half an hour later saw Ragna properly outfitted in a nondescript grey cloak, slipping outside through the inn’s back door. Though she was determined in her quest, she did feel a twinge of worry; Loki would no doubt be _lived_ if he caught her sneaking about without his permission.

 _What is good for the goose is good for the gander,_ she told herself stubbornly, making her way through dimly-lit, snowy streets towards the tavern. It wasn’t as if defying the Allfather was some grand new risk; she had done it plenty of times before.

The place, when she found it, was indeed buzzing with activity, and she was relieved to find that it had a few large, unshuttered glass windows - a surprising luxury, considering how ramshackle the rest of the building appeared. She sidled up to one carefully, glancing inside. _Where are you, Einar?_

When she did finally spot the god, Ragna’s heart plummeted. He sat, laughing genially, with a group of men by the hearth, a raven-haired woman on his knee.

 _Oh,_ she thought, too startled by the sharp pang of emotion that spiked through her to process anything else. She turned and fled.

 _How dare he?_ some part of her fumed, while the other side reasoned that there was no _logical_ reason for her to feel so upset. Their relationship, whatever it was, was not romantic… at least, not in any acknowledged, official capacity. It wasn’t as if Loki had ever actually said that he returned her feelings, that he _loved_ her.

But he had _wanted_ her, had he not? Even after _that_ night, he had said that she was beautiful, that he wanted to keep her by his side. And even on this trip, he had seemed to become extremely rankled when she attracted amorous attention. The king _was_ jealous over her, she was certain if that; the question was _why._

Was it simply because she was his sole companion in his lonely position as Allfather, unable to speak freely or even to reveal his face to anyone else? Her eyes stung slightly, and Ragna was appalled to realize that she was tearing up. _I am not Loki’s keeper,_ she reminded herself fiercely. He had told her that once before, had he not?

She had no desire to return to the inn and sit alone, waiting for the errant king to return. Instead, she wandered for a time down the snowy, hard-packed dirt streets, embracing the cleansing sting of the cold. There was a small bakery still open on the corner of one of the streets, and she trudged inside, morose. The baker seemed surprised to see a lady appear alone in his shop after nightfall, but he thankfully did not question her, and Ragna made her way back to the tavern with a packet of chocolate muffins tucked away in her bag.

In the time that she had been gone, many of the inn’s other patrons had drifted away, presumably either to their beds, or off to other establishments in search of more rousing entertainment. She returned Gyra’s cloak with her thanks, trying to keep the swirl of emotions in her chest from showing on her face.

“You have been gone longer than I expected; did you find him?”

“I did,” Ragna replied, hesitating. She _wanted_ to tell someone, to release some of these treacherous thoughts before they drove her mad. If the king had a problem with that, _well,_ it was his own fault for depriving her of any female companionship. “There was a woman in his lap, in the tavern.”

“No!” the other girl whispered in disapproval, resuming her seat at the table by the fire. Ragna sat across from her, pulling her muffins from her bag and placing them on the table to share.

“Yes. I only had to look through the window to find him.”

“Did you confront him?”

“No, I did not wish to create a spectacle.”

“Creating a spectacle would’ve been the least of his worries, if it were me,” Gyra declared, sampling a muffin and humming her appreciation.

“Our relationship is…” Frowning, Ragna struggled to find an innocuous way to describe the bizarre, complicated situation. _Lie,_ she could almost hear his voice whispering in her ear, _but base it in the truth._

“Our union is not something that we had any choice in deciding,” she finally said. “Though we knew each other as children, and I was fond of him then, I do not believe that he ever had any similar feelings towards me. We have not been together long, but my husband is very… fickle. I do not know if he cares for me.” Her voice cracked slightly at the admission, and she turned to her own dessert for comfort.

“You must find out!” Gyra exclaimed. “Even if he _doesn’t_ care for you, Drǫfn, you cannot allow philandering to stand. Is that a precedent you wish to set for your marriage?”

“No, of course not.” Ragna glumly stared at the lines and whorls tracing through the wood of the table, thinking back to her angry confession that she loved him, a confession that he had harshly rejected. But no, she would _not_ feel embarrassed for that; she had meant it, and it was the _truth._ “I do not know how to find out what he feels for me.”

The look Gyra gave her then was slightly amused. _“I_ can think of one way.” She waited, staring meaningfully, laughing when Ragna’s pink cheeks indicated that the implication had sunk in. “Do not look so embarrassed! He is your _husband._ A more _hands-on_ approach is perfectly acceptable.”

“I will take your advice under consideration,” Ragna managed, trying not to choke.

Gyra nodded decisively. “See that you do. Now, I have to go wipe down the tables, but I wish you the best of luck, Drǫfn. Thank you for the conversation,” she grinned, “and for the dessert.”

 

* * *

 

An hour later found Ragna standing in front of the tiny cracked mirror in their room, studying her reflection pensively. He had given her dark hair - she had assumed that it was as a joke, to make her look more like him, but the woman on his knee in the tavern was similarly-colored. That could not be the reason, could it - that she was normally not his… type? She twirled a strand around her finger, frowning at it.

Ragna was an inquisitive sort, and she decided to think of it rationally, as an experiment. Her goal was to determine if Loki desired her as she truly was, or really, to determine if he desired her at _all._ She concentrated on the image of her reflection, gritting her teeth in frustration as she willed the illusion to lift - she may have no aptitude for spellwork, but Norns knew she’d studied it enough. A glamor this complex had to be feeding off of her own energy, as well as Loki’s; in theory, she should be able to break it.

But she could not, and she finally abandoned her efforts, having only managed to add some flecks of blue back to her eyes and give herself a pounding headache. Shedding her clothing, she decided against the relatively modest nightgown she’d brought along on their trip. Instead, she stole one of the king’s shirts, leaving the top few buttons purposefully loose. _Bold move, Ragna,_ she told herself, burrowing under the covers to escape the chill of the drafty room.

Her intention was to wait up for him, but Ragna was exhausted, and she soon succumbed to a restless sleep. The creaking of the door awoke her sometime later, and she sat up, squinting into the darkness, the sheets sliding down to pool about her waist.

Loki stood frozen in the shadows by the door, looking for all the world like a guilty child caught raiding the kitchens in the night - and she should know, for she’d been apprehended right along with him on one such occasion. “I did not mean to wake you,” he said, removing unnecessary layers of clothing with a careless wave.

She watched him as he moved towards the bed and pulled aside the covers to join her, debating her plan of action for the hundredth time. Her reticence was clearly bothering him, and as he stretched out on his back beside her, she could see a slight edge of worry in his eyes. _Good,_ she thought. _He should be worried._

The king made a startled grunt as she slid over and straddled him without warning, pinning him to the bed. Ragna found it surprisingly motivating to have caught him off-guard for once, and before he had a chance to say anything that might ruin her resolve, she leaned forward and kissed him.

To his credit, Loki responded almost immediately, kissing her just as fiercely as he had that first day… the day that had ended in disaster. Her fingers tangled in his hair, wishing that it was his _real_ hair, wishing that she could see his true face. But… he was not touching her back.

Leaning away, she glanced down in confusion at the king’s face, which currently sported a slightly dazed expression, and at his fingers, digging into the sheets at his side with a death grip. “What are you-” he began, blinking rapidly, then his eyes focused and suddenly narrowed. “Why are your eyes _blue?”_

He sat up so quickly then that she had no time to retreat, one of his arms wrapping around her to halt her escape even if she’d dared to attempt it. “I wished to change them back!” she exclaimed, but Loki ignored her, tilting her jaw and studying her eyes with an increasingly irate expression.

“You attempted to undo my magic?” he said after a moment, voice worryingly icy. “Why?”

She could hardly tell him that she’d disobeyed his orders, spied on him, and developed an inferiority complex, could she? Not only would it make him more angry, but it would also be terribly embarrassing to admit to her own insecurity. Instead, she chose silence, squeezing her eyes shut in a vain attempt to block out his searching stare.

“Oh, Ragna,” he whispered, fingertips digging into her jaw ever-so-slightly, “that will not keep me out.”

Then she was inside of her memories, or rather, _he_ was inside of her memories, flipping through carelessly as she watched, trapped as a passenger in her own mind.

She saw the icy streets of the village passing by, and then she saw Loki, laughing by the fire. Her own disguised reflection appeared, blurry and cracked as she glared at it in frustration, and then he arrived at the memory of one of her recent dreams; Ragna instinctively pushed back against the intrusion, panicked. There was a hiss of pain, and she opened her eyes to find his face suddenly much, much too close. The arm holding her in his lap crushed her closer still, and anxiety fluttered in her stomach as she realized that she had been completely, irrevocably compromised.

“You have _disobeyed_ me, Ragna. Whatever shall I do with you now?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Setting some time aside for fanfic = my birthday present to myself!  
> Hope y'all enjoy!  
> <3


	23. The King's Heart

The girl in his lap squirmed uncomfortably under his accusing stare, apprehension building in her eyes - eyes that she,  _ somehow, _ had managed to free from his glamor. Loki allowed the rest of the spell to fall away, watching her shiver as the seiðr slid across her skin. 

She had not only disobeyed him, but she had  _ spied _ on him, and then she had attempted to hide it. “Do you somehow imagine that because I am fond of you, you are above rebuke?” 

Then, instead of the tearful, chagrined pleadings he might have expected, she jabbed a finger into his chest, her expression taking on a fire of its own. “If you are so  _ fond  _ of me, Loki, then who was that woman in the tavern?”

“Are you  _ jealous?” _ he asked, incredulous. “Is  _ that _ what this is about, Ragna?” He pulled her closer, the tips of their noses nearly touching. As furious as he was, some part of him, the yearning weakness hidden deep in his heart, felt… flattered?  _ Honored, _ even. 

_ Hopeful. _

No, he told himself, he should not feel hopeful. Even with her disobedience and penchant for causing him grief, Ragna had done nothing so reprehensible as to deserve  _ him _ as punishment. She might not understand that yet, but  _ he _ did.

“You do not want me, then?” she questioned shakily, horrifying him as the sheen of tears began to appear in her eyes, causing him to feel as if he’d been suddenly punched in the gut. 

“Of course I  _ want  _ you, you  _ stupid _ girl,” he seethed, and he slid his hands to her hips, pressing her more firmly into his lap, for even now, in the height of his rage, he ached for her,  _ craved _ her. 

And then, at a loss for words, needing to punish her and touch her in equal measure, Loki did something rather foolish, something that he would later look back on as the definitive beginning of his downfall. 

He unbalanced her, pushing her face-first onto the bed and wrangling her legs over his lap as she grunted in protest. The little vixen had worn one of his shirts to bed, and for a moment, Loki simply held her across his lap, one hand pressing down on her back, the other caressing the soft skin of her upper thigh. 

“You are  _ not _ above rebuke,” he assured her, voice coming out quite a bit more raspy than he’d intended as he smoothed the fabric up to bare more of her skin. Then, he brought his hand down on her backside with a sharp smack. 

Ragna squealed and writhed in his lap, twisting her neck to glare back at him in indignation. “What do you think you are  _ doing, _ Loki?” she sputtered, face turning red from embarrassment and anger. 

_ “Your Majesty,”  _ he snidely corrected her, bringing his hand down again. “I am reprimanding you for your audacity, girl. If you had any sense, you would be grateful that I am not  _ immediately _ sending you back to the palace.”

She flailed and  _ almost _ managed to strike him; he was slightly impressed, but equally outraged, and his hand stilled. “You would add to your transgressions? Accept the consequences of your actions here and now, or return to the palace.”

Face buried in the bed, she growled something indistinct. “What was that?” he pressed, delivering another stinging blow. 

There was something particularly beautiful about her in her wrath, he thought, a certain fire in her eyes that drove him mad. “I will stay and accept your  _ consequences,” _ she muttered, just barely loud enough for him to hear. 

“Good girl,” he said, though as the haze of outrage that had provoked his impetuousness began to clear somewhat, Loki was suddenly struck with the realization that he may have made a  _ terrible _ mistake. He’d  _ sworn _ not to touch her, and yet there she was, sprawled across his lap half-clothed and deliciously vulnerable. Even more damning was the fact that, as he continued to administer his sentence, her sharp gasps at each blow became less indicative of punishment, and began to sound suspiciously similar to pleasure. 

But Loki was not the sort of man (or king) to back down so easily, and so he pressed on despite his growing arousal, which he was almost  _ certain _ she couldn’t miss. Her tender skin began to turn a bit pink, and he was already considering halting earlier than he’d planned when a muted whine escaped her throat, muffled by the bed. When Ragna squirmed this time, he was shocked to realize that it was not  _ away  _ from him, but  _ against  _ him, and he froze immediately, painfully hard and not trusting himself to continue, knowing that hearing such a sound from her even once more may be enough to push his remaining reason aside. 

Instead, he placed a cool hand on her heated skin, gently caressing his handiwork. For a moment, he considered healing her, taking the sting away, but decided against it; he supposed it was some sort of inherent cruelty or selfishness, but he  _ wanted _ her to feel it, wanted her to  _ remember _ . It  _ was _ supposed to be a punishment, after all. He moved his restraining hand from her back, surprised when she did not immediately scramble away from him. Loki cleared his throat, trying to pretend that she could not feel his hardness, and that he could not see the evidence of her own desire soaked through her thin undergarments. 

“I -“ he began, but then he faltered, watching his fingers trace along the fragile fabric, feeling almost as though the actions were not his own. “I am satisfied,” he finally said, mustering enough self-control to withdraw his hand. “You are absolved.”

Absolved of her sins, yes, but damned all the same, for Loki realized now that there was not enough goodness in him to save Ragna from himself, not forever, not when she believed so wholeheartedly that she wanted  _ him, _ too. 

Not when she believed that she  _ loved _ him.

After a tense, brief moment in which both of them seemed too worried to move or breathe, Ragna crawled from his lap and knelt on the bed beside him, cheeks red, though her eyes were now more uncertain than angry. “That was unnecessary,” she said, seemingly intent on looking anywhere but his face.

“I believe that you learned something from it,” Loki told her, “didn’t you, Ragna?”  _ He _ certainly had. “Something about  _ obeying your king, _ perhaps?”

“You are one to talk!” the little handmaiden cried, temper lending her the courage to glare at him. “You have likely broken more rules than anyone in the Nine Realms.”

“But  _ my _ rules are to keep  _ you _ safe.”

That gave her pause, and something in her expression softened slightly.  _ I should not have said that,  _ he thought. But did it even matter anymore? All of his plans to keep some type of respectable distance between them were useless now, for she  _ knew _ that he cared, that she was special, that she had wormed her way into whatever was left of his heart, that he  _ needed _ her.  

“I will not lose you,” he continued, his throat suddenly uncomfortably tight. “I will keep you hidden away in the Allfather’s chambers for an eternity, if I must. If that is what it takes.” Ragna exhaled sharply at this admission, and Loki lay back down, desperate to end the conversation before he said something he’d regret even more than what he already had.

He closed his eyes, the fire of his anger having burned away to leave behind nothing but embers of worry and confusion and exhausted longing, and he soon felt her slide underneath the covers and press herself against his side. “This conversation is not over, and I am angry with you,” she whispered, her small fingers trailing along his chest, “but I  _ understand.”  _ Then she kissed his cheek and sighed softly, wrapping him in her arms as she drifted off into sleep.

And that was when Loki realized that he might love her, too.

 

* * *

 

The next morning, Ragna was already awake when Loki opened his eyes, though her bleary gaze indicated that it had not been for very long.  _ Why does she look at me like that? _ he wondered, for her expression seemed a mixture of fondness and careful calculation. 

She leaned forward and kissed him, painfully brief and soft, and his heart wrenched as she pulled away. When had Loki Liesmith become such a pathetic, sentimental fool? “I know that you would have words with me,” he said. “But first, let me say that…” He sighed, struggling to find the words.  _ Silver tongue turned to lead.  _ “I would not be with anyone else, Ragna. I  _ could _ not. You are…” 

What could he say? How could he hide away the depth of what he’d begun to feel for the little handmaiden, when it seemed so plainly obvious? Miserable, Loki elected to tell her the truth. “You have consumed me.” 

It was a surprise, he could see, to hear him say such a thing, and for a moment, he dared to hope that she might let the conversation end there. But this was  _ Ragna, _ persistent, bold little Ragna, and he should’ve known better. 

“What am I to you, sire?”

He reached out and toyed with a strand of hair, pondering his answer, for he had been asking himself the same question.  _ My prisoner, _ he should say.  _ My subject, my woman, my conscience, my downfall, my heart… _ “You are mine, my lady.”

Her eyes fluttered closed as his fingers strayed to her cheek. “Then you are mine, as well.”

_ Yes,  _ he thought reverently, though he could not bring himself to say it. “We need to leave soon,” he said. “I learned last night that Agviðr is holding a feast tonight in his hall, and I would like to be there well in advance.” He moved to rise, but Ragna’s small hand caught his wrist, and he turned back to find her eyes serious.

“Wait,” she said. “Promise me that you will not delve into my mind without warning again.”

The ‘without warning’ stood out to him, like some type of tangential confession that she knew he  _ would _ end up in her memories again, eventually. “I swear it.”

“Thank you, my king.”

 

* * *

 

They both kept to themselves for the rest of the morning, at least for the most part. Loki watched suspiciously as Ragna embraced the tavern’s serving wench and whispered something in her ear.  _ An accomplice,  _ he realized, unable to suppress his admiration. How had she managed to find someone to twist into her schemes so quickly? She truly was a force to be reckoned with, somehow both bothersomely noble and conniving, and if she were his queen… The notion brought his thoughts to a sudden halt - how  _ could _ she ever be his queen? Loki wasn’t even king in his own name, and Ragna deserved better, didn’t she? 

_ But she is yours, _ the voice in his head whispered.  _ You’ve already decided that she is yours. _

And as they made their way down the snowy road that morning, hand in hand, the wheels in Loki’s mind began to spin. He thought back to what the tavernkeep had said to him, words that had made him furious at the time, but now gave him an inkling of an idea.

_ “If you have any inclination to make an honest woman of that girl of yours, the local magistrate is very discreet.” _ The man’s tone had been full of condemnation; it was clear that he thought Ragna to be some poor, innocent country girl, taken advantage of by a high-born young rake, and the comparison had struck a bit too close from home. 

But now… He clenched his fist, telling himself that such thoughts could wait; they were on a mission, and his feelings for the little handmaiden had nothing to do with it, no matter how all-consuming they were. Or, at least, that was what he tried to convince himself, despite the feeling of her warm hand in his.

Agviðr’s castle, when they finally reached it, was actually quite a bit nicer than Loki had expected, especially given the state of the nearby towns and villages. It had a certain sprawl to it, as if many additions had been hastily added, and he wondered where they had managed to acquire the stone; he knew of no quarries in the area, which meant that the construction would have come at even greater expense. He noticed Ragna frowning pensively at the structure, as if she’d noticed the same thing. 

“My lord,” she began quietly, leaning towards his ear.

“I know,” he said. “It seems as though the lord is a very busy man, indeed.”

They were allowed into the main hall without any fuss; it was considered extremely poor manners to turn travellers away, particularly those who looked respectable. “You arrived at a marvelous time,” one of the maids enthused as she led them down one of the newer-looking hallways to their chamber. This alone was a shock to Loki, for he had resigned himself to the idea of sleeping on the floor like a common peasant, but it seemed that the lord now had more rooms than he could fill. “Our lord is celebrating his betrothal!”

Loki suppressed his frown, wondering why he’d heard nothing of this; marriages among the nobility were supposed to receive the blessing of the Allfather, and even if Agviðr was being defiant, Fandral should have reported something. 

“You can stay here for the night,” the girl said, ushering them into a room that was actually smaller than his prison cell had been. “There is a bathing chamber for guests down the hall, and the festivities will begin soon, so you’d best hurry down and find a good seat.”

He latched the door once she was gone, and Ragna tossed herself down on the small bed, groaning heavily. She was tired, he knew, and likely hungry, for they had not stopped for a midday meal. “What now?” she asked. “Perhaps I can go find someone’s knee to sit upon in the quest for information.”

Eyes narrowed, he moved to stand over her, glaring regally down his nose. “You’ll do no such thing, woman. You are going to stay by my side. I do not trust this place.” He licked his lips, tasting the air, trying to identify the faint traces of magic, barely-discernible and faint. “I can taste seiðr here.”

She sat up suddenly, snarky demeanor falling away. “You can? Is it…. is it the same as the enchantment on my mind?”

“No.” He closed his eyes, head tilting to the side as he concentrated.  _ There it is. _ “Ljósálfar… but it is muted, unfamiliar.” There was something else, too; not seiðr, but another foreign presence, a life-form that didn’t belong. “Kree,” he realized suddenly. But what was a Kree doing in the Nine Realms, and in the middle of nowhere on Asgard, no less?

He took in Ragna’s worried expression. _ I should not have brought her along, _ he thought once again, cursing his selfishness.  _ “Kree? _ But why would a Kree stray so far from their empire?” Her brow furrowed. “Are they not at war?”

“They are, and they have been for a millennia.” The presence of beings from far across the universe was not  _ necessarily _ a reason to worry, but Loki felt his lungs constrict all the same. The politics of the Nine Realms he could handle, but if Thanos had sent a spy after him… But no, he told himself, straightening his shoulders. There was no need to panic; the recent instability in the Nine Realms had led to all manner of marauders and vagabonds flitting about looking for easy pickings, and that was likely all this was. 

“Shall we go down?” Ragna asked. “I am rather hungry, and we  _ are _ here to mingle.”

“If we must.” He suddenly wanted nothing more than to call the whole thing off, or at least send her back. 

However, as he took her arm and led her back down to the lord’s feasting hall, he realized how absurd his worries seemed, how much she was affecting his emotions; he was the  _ Allfather, _ King of the Nine Realms, and a nearly-indestructible sorcerer. There were only a limited number of beings in the universe who could easily best him now, he reassured himself, and if any of them were on Asgard, he was certain he would know it. 

The feasting hall was diminutive compared to the one in his palace, and Loki carefully masked a haughty scowl. They found a place at one of the lower tables and took their seats, smiling pleasantly and making their introductions to those around them. “Hey!” a voice suddenly called out, and Ragna groaned softly as a man with odd tattoos on his shaven head thunked down in a seat almost exactly opposite her. “I know your face.”

“Oh, yes,” she replied, looking as though she was truly delighted to see a someone familiar. “I believe we were at the same tavern last night.”

“Ah, that’s it. The name’s Skurge,” he said, reaching across the table in what Loki considered an appalling lack of manners. 

He felt irritation flicker through him as Ragna took the oaf’s hand, though he supposed it would have seemed rude for her to ignore it. “I am Drǫfn. Was your gaming successful?”

“I cleared them all out,” the man boasted. “It’s easy enough, when you have strategic, tactical experience like I do. You should’ve joined us.”

_ I cannot take this, _ Loki thought. “My wife does not gamble.”

“She can’t, but you can? I’m guessing you’re the Einherji I heard about who lost so much last night at The Speckled Boar, aren’t you?” He tsked, shaking his head dramatically. “Some men have no respect for women.”

Loki’s eyes widened slightly at the sheer audacity of the man, who seemed to be a complete buffoon. “It is not because he disallows it,” Ragna said smoothly, “but because I consider it a vice.”

Skurge rolled his eyes. “Typical woman.” Then he rose from his seat, his voice drowned out as he moved to hail someone further down the hall. “Hey, Arngeirr, I haven’t seen you since…”

“How quickly you make friends,” Loki remarked, staring daggers at the man’s back.

“You left me alone,” Ragna said, brows arched as if daring him to challenge her. “What was I to do?”

_ You were not to fall in with the local tavern wenches and thugs, _ he wanted to sneer, but the lord at the high table stood and banged his goblet on the table before Loki had the chance to do anything more than glare. 

An elf-maiden stood beside Agviðr, surveying the room with a cool, composed expresion. The woman was fairly unremarkable, save for an unusually pallid expression and eyes that seemed slightly sunken in. “Today we celebrate my betrothal to Lady Bruna of Alfheim.” He took the elf’s hand, and she smiled blandly. 

“I am certain that I shall be quite happy here,” she politely announced, and then they sat, followed by a round of cheering and toasting. 

Loki’s temper flared; not only was one of the lords getting married without the Allfather’s blessing, but he was also marrying a woman from another realm? How had she even arrived? Since its painstaking reconstruction, the Bifrost was supposed to only be used for official business.  _ Perhaps Odin needs to call Agviðr to court, _ he mused. 

He glanced at Ragna, whose gaze was fixed on someone at the high table. “What do you see, my lady?”

“The other woman at his side,” she whispered. “His mother, I’m certain I remember seeing her at court before. She is displeased with the match, look.”

And indeed, as he watched the older woman interact with those around her, he saw telltale signs of frustration, of disgust; was it simply because her future daughter-in-law was of another realm, or that her son had chosen his own bride with no thought to the family estate? Or was there something more?

“You are right,” he murmured, pressing his lips to her ear in what he was certain would merely look like a gesture of matrimonial affection. “I must endeavour to speak with her alone. Disappointed noblewomen have wagging tongues, and she may know something of use.”

Ragna’s hand was suddenly on his thigh, fingers digging in slightly, almost as if in warning. “And what am I to do while you attempt to charm Agviðr’s mother?”

“I do not intend to do anything  _ unseemly,” _ Loki replied, slightly exasperated. 

“That is not what I mean,” she hissed back. “I mean… what am I supposed to  _ do? _ I did not come all this way just to sit here, my lord. You know that.”

_ Of course. _ He scanned the hall critically, trying to identify potential threats. The elf’s magic was not powerful, and while it was not necessarily light, neither was it dark; it was suspicious, but not damning evidence of any ill intent, and she certainly wasn’t gifted enough to see past their glamors. The room was full of armed men, and there was still the mysterious presence of the yet-unseen Kree, but Ragna was well-disguised. At the very least, it was enough for him to allow her to roam to the other side of the hall without him.

“When the tables are cleared to make room for dancing, you may mingle,” he said. “And I shouldn’t have to remind you not to eat or drink anything without me nearby, correct?”

She blanched sightly. “Correct.”

“Perhaps try chatting with your friend from the tavern; he certainly seems to enjoy talking. Or, you could try to introduce yourself to the lord himself, as I recall hearing him described as something of a womanizer.” Her look was sharp, searching. “It will give me further excuse to have him executed,” he continued, unable to keep his lips from twisting into a smirk at her horrified expression.

“You are so easy to tease,” he whispered, and this time, he actually did kiss the shell of her ear, relishing the way her breath caught in her throat as he did. It was his voice that caused her to react so, he knew; she had practically admitted as much to him before, when she’d demanded he read those horrid romances from Midgard. Loki decided then and there that when they were home, he would read to her more often. 

And when the tables  _ were _ finally moved aside, music beginning to play, he pulled Ragna onto the dance floor. “It is no grand ball,” he said, sliding his hand around her waist, “but I hope that it will suffice, for now.”

Her cheeks flushed, but her smile was radiant. “When will we go home?” she asked, and his heart swelled to hear her call her little prison with him  _ home. _

“Soon. I only wish to spend a day or so here, and then… then there is something else that I wish to attend to, before we go back to the palace.”

“What is it?”

“I will tell you later, I promise. But not here, in this place.”

She seemed to accept his vagueness easily enough, thankfully, and when the song ended, they parted ways, Loki sliding off to do what he did best: lie.

 

* * *

 

By the time he came back to collect her to return to their chamber, the evening was growing late, and Loki was satisfied with his progress and more than ready to turn in for the night. Ragna, however, was rather preoccupied, her amused smile barely-concealed as she danced with the man named Skurge, nodding with well-acted fascination as he rambled on about his exploits. 

“I have always wished to visit Midgard,” she said, a mischievous twinkle in her eye. “Perhaps the Allfather will reopen the Bifrost for civilian travel someday.”

Loki cleared his throat, stepping up beside them, and Ragna turned to him with a look of relief. “Are you ready to retire for the night?”

“Yes. Come along, darling.”

“Goodnight, Skurge,” she said sweetly, patting his arm. “I enjoyed our dance.”

“Goodnight, my lady,” he replied with unnecessary grandiosity, and Loki grit his teeth as he practically towed her from the hall.

“I like him,” Ragna laughed as they made their way to their room. “He is very… entertaining.”

“Is he?”

“He fought beside you, apparently, decades ago. It was listed among his  _ many _ accomplishments.”

“I’m honored.”

“I found out something interesting.” They reached the room, and he saw her visibly relax once they were safely locked away inside. “This rumor of raids seems to be spreading - Skurge specifically mentioned Frost Giants. The general attitude here seems to be that the realm of Jotunheim should have been destroyed during your… reign.” She sat down heavily on the bed, teasing her hair out of its plaits. “That the Allfather has gone soft in his old age.”

“There are no Frost Giants in Asgard,” he replied, “save for me. I would know.”

“Well, someone is certainly spreading the story, and I think that we need to find out  _ why.” _

“I know why,” Loki said, taking a seat beside her. “It is to give the locals a cause to rally against, an excuse to raise forces and store up resources. The real question is - what is he  _ really _ up to?”

“Even with the numbers of men he’s gathering here, he could never hope to challenge the throne, could he?”

“No. At least, not directly. Not without outside help.”

Ragna bit her lip, lost in thought, and Loki took the moment of silence to run his fingers through her raven-dark hair; though it was different, wasn’t really  _ her,  _ it was still quite pretty.  _ “You have made me in your image,” _ she’d said, and she had been right. 

“Have you angered any elves lately, Allfather?”

“None of the Ljósálfar, certainly. Odin has always done his best to keep them close, as well as the Vanir. But I suppose there is always a chance that some factions resent the oversight of the Æsir. Perhaps that is what we are dealing with here, some sort of inter-realm rebellion.”

“And they would place the blame on the Jötnar, an enemy to all three realms.”

“It is a possibility. I must request a meeting with Queen Fárbauti once we’ve returned to the capital.” Groaning, he fell back onto the bed, staring up at the low wooden ceiling. “I do not wish to speak with  Fárbauti.”

He felt her small hand on his chest, and she leaned over into his field of vision, pressing a small kiss to his temple.

“What did you learn from Agviðr’s mother?”

“She is incensed that some upstart from Alfheim has her son in her elven clutches,” he said. “It was apparently quite sudden, and he did not consult the family elders. However, Lady Bruna  _ apparently _ has quite a large fortune; she was begrudgingly appreciative of that.”

“Hmm.” Ragna yawned and moved away from him, and he propped himself up on his elbows to find her digging through their bag for her nightclothes. “We can fret over it all in the morning, my king. I am quite tired.”

_ We.  _ Such a small word, but so  _ overwhelming. _ Someone to share his worries, his troubles… the thought had made him angry, in the beginning, the idea that she could possibly  _ understand _ him, the idea that she presumed he could ever  _ need _ her. “Yes,” he agreed, “we can.”

 

* * *

 

The following day proved to be rather anticlimactic, although he did finally spy the mysterious Kree - a woman, blue-skinned and willowy, whispering into the ear of Lady Bruna as she sat impassively at the high table. She appeared harmless enough, and when he’d slipped near to her, he felt no tinges of dark seiðr. 

It was incredibly frustrating, not being able to locate the magical signature he’d been after for so long, and Loki began to fear that he had two troubles on his hands - a rebellion and an assassination - that might not necessarily be related. Well, two  _ more _ troubles; he’d already had troubles aplenty, even before this entire debacle. 

The sellsword who’d been so taken with Ragna several villages back made a reappearance while they were eating lunch, and after suffering through  _ that _ conversation, he decided that he’d had quite enough of Agviðr and his men; it was only supposed to be a reconnaissance mission, after all, and he’d learned enough for the time being. He told himself that it had nothing to do with his desire to return to his newly-established ‘normalcy’ at the palace, or his nervous anticipation regarding the next step in his plans.

In fact, his plan, or rather, his hastily-made, ramshackle  _ facsimile _ of a plan, was occupying Loki’s every waking thought. He would have to be logical about how he presented it, truly  _ convincing,  _ if he wanted the little handmaiden’s cooperation. And he wanted to discuss it with her while he was wearing his own face - that would require a more secure location.

He led her north several hours later. “Where are we going, sire?” she asked, puzzlement writ across her face.

“Once we are further from the castle, we are going to teleport to one of the royal family’s lodges,” he said firmly, for he knew the idea of further magical transportation would make her protest. “It is located in Nastrond, remote and well-shielded, and there are several passages to other realms nearby.”

“I would much prefer to walk, sire. You go on ahead, and I shall meet you there eventually.”

Loki laughed, but Ragna actually seemed rather serious about the idea. “You will be fine, little maiden,” he assured her. “I promise.”

Although, when they  _ did _ finally make the jump, landing among a tumble of rocky, snow-covered boulders, she cursed rather vehemently and rushed off to the bushes nearby to retch. She moaned unhappily, truding back to his side, cheeks flushed with shame. “Norns help me, you wish to torture me.”

“You are being  _ incredibly _ dramatic, my lady. This was much better than the last time, was it not?”

“I suppose,” she grumbled.

The trek up the hill to the lodge was steep and icy, and he ended up half-carrying her most of the way, complaining about her frailty while secretly enjoying the feeling of holding her close to his side. It was a relief to find that the old wards were still in place, and he sighed wistfully at the traces of Frigga’s magic in the spells, feeling the seiðr slide over his skin like a gentle caress. 

“This is it,” he said, an unexpected wave of nostalgia hitting him hard in his chest as he pulled her up to the old lodge, which hadn’t seen any use in decades, at least. Crafted from wood and stone, it sat perched on the side of the hill, overlooking the deep, half-frozen lake. Odin had taught his sons to fish in that lake.  _ His son, _ he quickly corrected himself.  _ There is only one Odinson. _

“It is beautiful,” Ragna remarked, casting a look his way that indicated she had caught on to the gist of his emotions.  _ Emotions.  _ How bothersome.

“Yes, it is, and it is also well-hidden and secure.” He pressed his hand to a nondescript-looking golden panel on the door, which swung open to allow him entry. It was exactly like he remembered it. Loki dissolved their glamors, heart racing a bit at the way her eyes lit up when his true face appeared.

“I am happy to see you again, my king.”

_ And I, you. _ Moving about restlessly, he began to set the place to rights, a fire springing to life in the hearth, dust evaporating. “I wish to take a look at the passages I know of, before we return to the palace,” he said. “There is also something I wish to discuss with you.” Here, Loki hesitated, keeping his back to her so that his face could not betray his apprehension, his inner turmoil. “A proposition, of sorts.”

“Oh?”

Ignoring her curiosity for the time being, he pulled rations out of their travel pack; it was not  _ ideal,  _ but it would have to do - it wasn’t as if he’d had the foresight to have the place restocked. In fact, this whole little side-trip was incredibly impulsive.”I am considering hosting a feast when I’ve returned,” he complained, frowning at the humble selection. “I had more variety even when I was locked away in a cell.”

She came and sat across from him, her lip quirking in amusement. “Well, you were still a Prince of the Realm, sire, even in prison. I have no doubt that your fare was better than the common inmate’s.”

Loki shrugged. He  _ was _ royalty, after all - royalty twice over, a prince of two realms, though neither of them really wanted him. It only made sense that he would have rich tastes. 

By the time they finished eating, night was beginning to fall, and though the icy cold remained, the air was clear. He convinced her to join him outside, certain that she would enjoy the sight of the last falling rays of light scattering across the surface of the lake, the clouds in the sky streaked purple and pink, glittering stars in the darkness beyond. Loki observed from the corner of his eye as her bright blue eyes widened, as her lips parted slightly in wonder. 

_ Beautiful. _

He’d intended to wait until the following day, to ease her into the idea gradually, or perhaps even to convince himself that he was mad and selfish and acting like a fool, but in that moment…

“Ragna,” he said, taking her hand, “are you… happy here?”

She blinked up at him, as if surprised by such a question. “Yes, of course.”

“Marry me.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SENTIMENT 
> 
> p.s. I love you guys <3


	24. The Cabin

_“Marry me.”_

Ragna gaped at the king, wondering if she’d somehow misheard. “Marry?” she asked weakly.

His grip on her fingers tightened, and his other hand tangled in her hair, pulling her closer. “Yes.” Loki’s eyes flickered as he examined her face, regarding her almost as if she were a wild, skittish horse likely to break free.

“But… but _why?”_ A hint of what might have been hurt flashed in his eyes, but he did not let her go. Ragna wanted nothing more in that moment than to fall into his arms and cry _yes_ and _of course_ and _I love you_ and allow him to sweep her away into a dream, but Loki… Loki _always_ had an ulterior motive.

And he still had not said that he loved her.

“Come inside,” he said. “You are growing too cold.”

Was she? Ragna had not noticed; but then, she was currently overwhelmed with a warm, buzzing sort of feeling, her heart beating rapidly, skin hypersensitive. She allowed the king to lead her inside by the fire, too baffled to even pretend at a protest when he pulled her into his lap.

“This is my proposition to you, Ragna,” he said, and though his voice sounded smooth and strong, she could feel his tension in the way his hand fidgeted with the fabric of her dress. “If you marry me, you will have security. Our current situation appears, as you once described it, rather _scandalous,_ and if something happens now…”

“Oh.” She deflated slightly. “So that is what this is about - your fears of being caught.”

His fingers clutched at her dress a bit more fiercely, but Loki pressed on as if he hadn’t heard her. “If something happens now, you would likely be considered an accomplice. But if we are wed, you would be granted protection under Asgardian law, as my wife. There is a law that states that a wife cannot be held accountable for her husband’s treason, and -”

“It is an old, _outdated_ law that presumes women are incapable of making their own decisions,” Ragna interrupted, suddenly furious at the idea that he would propose to her out of - what was it? - _guilt_ over the damage her reputation would take?

“I know,” he said, taking her hand once again, “but it is a law, nonetheless. And you would be a princess of the Realm Eternal, Ragna, even if I were to be discovered and deposed. You would not lose the title, even if I lost my...”

He hesitated, turning towards the fire, vainly attempting to hide his somber expression. “You would inherit everything I own,” he continued softly. “They would not take that from you; Thor is far too chivalrous. You would never want for anything. It is the least I can do.”

“The least you can do,” she repeated woodenly as she snatched her hand away, eyes starting to sting. _He does not truly wish to wed me, then,_ she thought, fingernails digging into her palms as a deep sense of hurt burned in her heart. His appeared taken aback her tone, but she snapped before he could utter a word. “I do not want to marry you for a _title_ or your _fortune,_ Loki. Though, I suppose I must thank you for your _generosity._ How _noble.”_

She could feel the moment his temper rose to match her own, eyes blazing, though she was too incensed to care. “Yes,” he seethed, taking a firm hold of the back of her neck. _“‘How noble,’_ indeed, when I could’ve simply kept you chained in the dungeon, or to my bed. Is _that_ what you want to hear, girl?” Loki’s eyes widened when she flinched, a knowing, slightly malicious light glittering to life. “Oh, it _is,_ isn’t it?”

The grip on her neck grew tighter, and the king’s breath fanned across her cheek as he leaned close, eyes fixed on her lips. “Allow me to assure you that my desire to bed you at my leisure factors _significantly_ into my proposition.”

Ragna shivered, confused by how quickly he had swallowed up her anger and turned it into something… else. “That is not -” she began to object, but he did not allow it.

“Quiet.” _Voracious_ was the best word her flustered mind could come up with to describe the way he kissed her then, punishing and demanding, tugging on the sensitive hair at the nape of her neck, forcing her head back to provide him easier access to her lips. “Or I will turn you over my knee again, and we _both_ know that you will enjoy it.”

She _wanted_ to say something clever, some sharp retort, but the king’s tongue proved to be rather distracting, and by the time he broke away to compose himself, Ragna was beginning to feel slightly mollified. Some degree of shame arose at the way she’d lashed out, and she studied him carefully under her lashes. The king looked… rejected. And angry. _Predatory._

“If I _were_ to agree to this,” she said delicately, flushing as his free hand slid up her thigh, “how would it even be possible? You are supposedly dead, and I am, as far as anyone knows, hidden away on Vanaheim.”

“It is simple magic,” Loki replied, a distracted tone to his voice as he watched his fingers trail across the fabric of her skirt, slowly inching closer and closer… she wriggled, an increasingly-familiar ache building in her center, and he stopped, meeting her eyes with an almost-startled expression. “What is written on the marriage scroll is binding and sealed with its own enchantment; we would sign our true names, and the officiant would see whatever I wished for him to see. In time, if such a document ever became relevant, I would simply lift my charm and the Realm would know that you are _mine.”_

“And…” She hesitated, unsure how to ask exactly what he planned for their married life to _entail._ “In the meantime, sire, while you remain on the throne in Odin’s form… what do you intend to _do_ with me?”

“Very little would change.” Ragna did not know whether to be relieved or disappointed at that, and so she held her tongue.  “But I do intend to take my marital duties _quite_ seriously. I am certain,” he continued, fingertips brushing just below the apex of her thighs, “that you would find me _extremely…_ pleasing.”

She grabbed his hand before he could go any further, already terribly embarrassed by the wanton way her body was responding to him; hadn’t she just been _angry,_ moments ago? Now she was practically panting, having a difficult time stringing together a coherent sentence. “A mistress, then, in effect.”

“No.” The king looked irritated. “My _wife._ I would be faithful to you, always. You would have my trust, as much as I am able to give. You would share my throne, if I ever manage to replace Odin in a more public, permanent manner.”

Ragna wondered if he’d even thought about what he was saying. “Always is a long time, Loki.”

 _“Is_ it? You, who claim to _love_ me… could you not pledge your undying faithfulness? Your loyalty?”

“That is not what I meant. Of _course_ I could - in many ways, I have already done so.”

“Then what _did_ you mean, Ragna?”

“You are the God of _Lies!”_

He recoiled slightly, and she immediately wished that she had not spoken, but it was the _truth;_ why should she expect Loki to be constant and true for the rest of their lives? She loved him, but he was fickle; the last thing she wanted was for him to judge her an unwanted burden, months or years or even centuries from now.

“You have asked for my trust,” he said after a tense moment. “Now, I must ask for yours. Marry me, Ragna. _Please.”_

He just _couldn’t_ say it, could he? But then, maybe this was the closest that Loki would ever get to telling her that he loved her, too. Maybe that was what of this all _was,_ an awkward, scheming attempt at expressing feelings that he couldn’t bring himself to voice.

“Alright,” she said, a reluctant smile tugging at the corners of her mouth at the way his face lit up in triumph. “Yes, Loki, I will be your bride.”

He grinned, a mischievous look glittering in his eyes, and she wondered suspiciously if he’d really been quite as fearful of her rejection as he’d acted. “Tomorrow, then.”

Ragna balked. “Tomorrow?”

“But of course, little maiden. What reason is there to delay? In fact, I’ll go into the nearest village and wake the officiant right now, if you wish.”

She struggled half-heartedly to free herself from his arms as he peppered kisses along her jaw. _So,_ the king thought that he could _tease_ her, did he? Two could play at that game.

“I really must retire for the night,” she said primly, giving his chest a hard shove as his wicked fingers became a bit _too_ amorous. “You will, of course, sleep in another room or on the couch, as is _appropriate_ for a man not yet wed.”

He released her, and _there_ it was again, that slightly-feral look that did terrible things to her. “As you wish, Lady Ragna,” he replied with equal civility. “Far be it from me to compromise your virtue the very night before you become a bride.”

Heart pounding, she fled to his bedchamber, relieved (but perhaps _also_ a little disappointed) when he did not chase after her.

 

* * *

 

Ragna did not sleep much that night, lying awake for long hours as she stared at the ceiling, trying to make sense of it all. Had she _truly_ just agreed to wed the false King of the Nine Realms, the Trickster God? Loki Laufeyson, a _husband._

 _Her_ husband. _Norns._

Marriage had always seemed like a far-away milestone to Ragna, though she knew the possibility grew more and more with each passing decade. She was still young, _true,_ but it was rather odd for her to be without any real prospects at her age; had her family been more wealthy or boasted a more-perfect pedigree, she would’ve likely already been betrothed. Fortunately, her parents had never seemed particularly bothered by her lack of suitors.

Her parents… what in all the Realms would she tell _them?_ What if they tried to arrange her marriage while she was on Vanaheim? What could she possibly say? _“Oh, no, Mother and Father, I’ve actually already eloped with the Allfather! Not Odin, of course… his adopted Frost Giant son Loki, who betrayed him and has been secretly ruling Asgard for the past year.”_

She groaned, burying her face in her pillow. No, that would _not_ do.

And her brothers… _Norns,_ but she hated to think what they’d do. Davyn in particular had always been a bit _overprotective._ And rash. In that way, he was actually quite like her betrothed; she did not think the two were likely to get along very well, under the circumstances.

Perhaps things would work out more nicely than all of that, despite the king’s tendency to be morbid. Perhaps he _would_ actually rule the Realm Eternal as Loki Allfather one day, and she would be able to stand by his side proudly, his publicly-acknowledged other half. Could she really even imagine such a thing?

Ragna thought to the poise and beauty of Queen Frigga, who had stood fearlessly by Odin Allfather’s side for countless centuries. Had the queen had such worries, when she was a young goddess, about to be married? How could she ever compare to the Allmother?

 _Well,_ another part of her whispered, _you may never have the opportunity, in the first place._ And that was true; even if Loki _did_ keep the throne… would he _really_ ever consider her his queen? Or would his interest fade, once he had achieved everything he’d ever wanted?

_But if I have loved, what is there to fear?_

That, she decided, was the answer: she’d committed no _crime_ by falling in love with the God of Mischief, it simply... _was._ His heart was his own, and Ragna knew she would never be able to understand it entirely, or to always predict the fickle king’s ways, but she _loved_ him, and that was, in and of itself, worth the risks.

_Come what may._

 

* * *

 

The king appeared to have gotten little sleep the previous night, as well, and Ragna _almost_ felt guilty for casting him from his bed, but then she remembered how smug and self-assured he’d been in his victory, and she immediately decided that her sentence was just. Truth be told, it didn’t really seem to matter, for even as tired and disheveled as he looked when he woke her in the morning, Loki appeared to be in an _extremely_ pleasant mood.

“We will check the passageways and then go into the nearest village,” he said, “and then, I believe we can afford to spend another night here before we return to the palace.”

Ragna blushed, deciding that it was entirely too early to consider exactly what _spending the night_ implied. “I thought that you’d wish to return to the palace as quickly as possible. Is the drain on your magic not exhausting?”

“It is,” the king replied carefully, a strange sort of look on his face. “But I thought that you might find this place more… appealing.”

“Appealing?” She blinked up at him in confusion, for had she not known better, she would’ve said that he looked almost _embarrassed._ Loki simply did not _do_ embarrassment.

He cleared his throat, moving to look out the window. “We are only going to have one wedding night, Ragna.”

 _“Oh,”_ she said, comprehension dawning. Was this an attempt at being… _romantic?_ Her stomach fluttered, and she went to stand next to him, leaning into his side as they gazed out at the icy lake.

“I would like for us to set out for the caves soon,” he said, slipping an arm around her waist. “Go and get dressed.”

“It would be much easier, sire, were you not holding me.”

Loki’s lip quirked. “I suppose that is true.”

“And yet, you are not releasing me.”

Sighing dramatically, the king removed his arm. “Very well, my lady. I will be waiting outside.”

 

* * *

 

Ragna wondered, as she emerged from the cabin to find him standing out in the snow, staring off into the mountains, if he felt more comfortable in the icy climate. Knowing what she did of the inner workings of Loki’s mind, she suspected that he probably would never admit as much, even if that were the case.

The trek to the caves that the king wanted to investigate did not take as long as she’d expected, though the climb was a bit treacherous in places. Loki did not seem to mind the sharp drop-offs, but Ragna found them terrifying, and she clung close to his side every time the path narrowed.

“Do you need for me to carry you yet _again_ , girl?” he asked, feigning exasperation.

“No, _sire,”_ she replied haughtily, “I am quite capable of _walking_ by myself.”

He laughed. “Remember when you fall off the side of the mountain that I offered aid, and you refused it.”

But somehow, she managed without suffering the indignity of falling off the mountainside in front of her king, and they reached the first of Loki’s passageways by midmorning. With no warning, he tugged her through what appeared, at first glance, to be solid rock, and she yelped in surprise.

“Really, Ragna, I would think that you would know to expect these things, by now.”

“How could I, when you _purposefully_ try to catch me off-guard?”

“Well,” Loki smirked, “I _do_ enjoy how flustered you become when you are startled. It is quite entertaining.”

 _“Is_ anything the matter here?” she asked, not wishing to waste any more time in dark, magical caves than was necessary. “Do you notice anything abnormal?”

She watched as he prowled about the cave, becoming visibly frustrated as he went. “No. Everything is just as I left it. Not one ward has been disturbed.”

“Do not be discouraged, Loki. We will find a clue, sooner or later.”

But the next passageway was the same, and the one after that.

“Well,” he sighed as they made their way down into one of the snow-filled valleys. “This proves one thing, at least: unless Heimdall has allowed them in through the Bifrost, no Frost Giants have entered Asgard since the incident with Laufey.”

 _“The incident with Laufey.”_ He said it so casually that it made her shudder. “That is good news, is it not?”

“I suppose. Perhaps I can delay meeting with their queen, after all.” They walked in silence for a moment. Ragna tried to glance furtively at him out of the corner of her eye, but found that the king was already studying her. “You are wondering if Queen Fárbauti is my birth mother.”

Embarrassed to have been caught, she nodded.

“I do not know. Laufey, by all accounts on Asgard, at least, had several wives throughout his long life. The records are vague.”

“Do you not wish to _know,_ sire?”

“No.” He frowned, seemingly lost in thought. “I have often wondered how Odin knew that I was Laufey’s son. I do not believe the Jötnar would let it be known to the Realms that their king had a child so weak that it was to be left to the elements.”

Ragna stiffened; while most of the Realm had a general idea by now of Loki’s true heritage, she’d never heard the story in quite so much detail. “Had they only known,” she said delicately, taking his hand in her own, “that you would grow to be stronger than either of them.”

His lips twisted into a grim sort of smile. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, if only.”

 

* * *

 

The rest of their walk to the village was uneventful; Loki seemed to be far away in his own mind, and Ragna was too eaten-up with anxiety over their upcoming nuptials to pry. In many ways, the little village reminded her strongly of those near her home in Ringsfjord, stocky little buildings with cheerful red brick chimneys and golden paint on the doors. She supposed that perhaps it was simply the northern style, but it almost seemed portentous, as if reminding her that she _should_ have her family by her side.

They found the tavern easily enough, and Loki bought far more than was truly necessary, requesting that the extra be packed in a hamper for them to take with them. “We will be hungry later,” he said, “and I do not want to have to come back into the village.”

And then… and then, it was time. Holding her tightly by the hand, almost as if he feared that she might suddenly change her mind and bolt, he led her to the tiny magistrate’s court situated in the very middle of the village.

The magistrate, a rail-thin man with sleepy eyes, seemed startled to have two strangers suddenly show up on his door demanding to be wed in the middle of the afternoon, but a few coins easily persuaded him to make room for them in his schedule at once. She felt a slight chill when the king used his seiðr, and wondered distractedly if she was becoming much more attuned to it, or if it had always been so noticeable.

As he took her hands and they recited the vows, vows that Ragna had heard dozens of times before, she felt a slight pang of sadness that this had to be hidden, that she could not even see his true face. By the time they neared the end, her voice was beginning to shake. “In glory and in love, I shall sit by your side in Valhalla.”

Loki must’ve noticed her distress, for he leaned down and placed a kiss to her forehead; it was a breach in propriety, to be certain, but the sleepy-eyes magistrate did not seem to care. “...and we shall not be parted,” he finished, murmuring against her hair. “Not by the gates of Hel, nor by the very fires of Ragnarok itself.”

She’d never really given any thought to just how grimly-beautiful the wedding vows were; fitting, she supposed, for a warrior race. And, perhaps most wondrously of all, Loki sounded like he _meant_ them.

 

* * *

 

An odd sort of tension hung over them as they ventured back to the cabin, a terrible, excited sort of apprehension that made her heart race. Ragna squeaked in surprise when they reached the door, for Loki suddenly swept her from her feet, dissolving their glamors and carrying her across the threshold in an uncharacteristic display of gallantry. Although, based upon the smirk on his face, perhaps it was less out of gallantry and more out of an effort to tease her.

Determined to make him just as flustered as she felt, wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him soundly. As her mind began to feel a bit foggy, she dimly wondered if encouraging him was a good idea; _but,_ at least, his smirk was certainly gone.

The king finally set her down on her feet, looking incredibly pleased (and _also,_ she was happy to note, slightly disheveled). “I almost forgot,” he said. “Give me your hand.” She offered it shyly, and he deftly removed the ring from her middle finger. Then, with an exaggerated sense of gravity, he slid it onto her ring finger. “There, my lady. Now you are properly wifed.”

There was the fluttering in her heart again. “Do you not intend to wear one, as well?” she blurted, realizing almost at once how silly of a question it was.

Loki’s brow lifted in surprise. “It is not traditional. Why would you ask?”

Well, he likely wouldn’t _appreciate_ the reason, but Ragna decided that she might as well speak the truth. They _had_ just been married, after all. “It is somewhat common on Midgard,” she mumbled, the heat in her cheeks building. _Norns,_ would she _ever_ stop blushing around him? “The men in my family adhere to the custom.”

He stared silently at their joined hands for a moment, and she began to fear that she’d spoken unwisely. However, when he finally met her eyes, he did not look _angry._ In fact, she found his expression to be a bit unreadable. “Very well,” he said. “If you acquire one, I will wear it.”

“You will?”

“Yes.”

It felt like a victory, somehow, though she knew he was likely only agreeing in an attempt to curry favor, and Ragna beamed. “Thank you, sire.”

“There are many other things you may call me now, Ragna.”

 _“Husband.”_ The word sounded… strange, somehow. Foreign.

“I was actually considering something more like ‘lord and master,’” Loki said with faux-thoughtfulness, tapping his chin. “But I suppose I already _was_ your lord and master, considering that I am king.”

“I will not be addressing you as ‘lord and master,’ _Loki,”_ she retorted, pulling her fingers free from his grasp.

The glint in his eye promised trouble, and she retreated with a few hasty backwards steps, Loki following after her. “We shall see.”

Ragna threw up her hands to ward him off, and though she meant to sound firm, her words came out as little more than a squeak. “Stop! I am going to take a bath. _Alone.”_

His expression did not change, but after a moment, he nodded his assent. “Go on then, _wife._ I will be waiting _most_ eagerly for your return.”

 _Norns,_ she thought as she scurried off to barricade herself in the bathing room. _What have I gotten myself into now?_

 

* * *

 

Nearly an hour later and out of every possible excuse she could think of to delay, Ragna finally emerged from her bath, immensely relieved to find that Loki was not waiting for her in the bedchamber. She quietly tiptoed to the large window, gazing at the sunset, which was every bit as beautiful as when they’d first arrived at the cabin. Despite the suddenness and the oddness of it all, she had to admit that he _had_ done a rather good job of trying to romance her.

But now… what was she to _do?_ Her desire for her husband was a well-established fact; she did not deny that. Still, the idea of finally _acting_ on it after, well, _centuries_ of having feelings for him… that was another matter entirely. And, though she normally did her best to abstain from self-doubt, Ragna couldn’t help but wonder: what if he found her lacking?

A dramatic sigh from the doorway behind her caused her spine to stiffen. _“‘Had we but world enough and time, this coyness, lady, were no crime.’”_

She glanced over her shoulder suspiciously, for _surely_ Loki Laufeyson, God of Mischief, was not _willingly_ quoting Midgardian poetry to her. “We _do_ have all the time in the world, Loki; we are immortal.”

“Not so, little maiden,” he replied, and then he was suddenly behind her, brushing her hair to the side and pressing his lips to her neck. “You, I’m afraid, are _entirely_ out of time.”

The combination of the murmured words against her already-too-sensitive skin, along with the arms that now wrapped around her, had the embarrassing effect of eliciting a soft groan. Her nightgown, she realized now, was _far_ too thin, for as his hands moved to cup her breasts, it felt almost as if she were wearing nothing at all. He straightened, pulling her closer to his chest, and she wiggled in shame as his seeking fingers found her nipples already hardening from his attentions. She was _supposed_ to be a lady.

“I was right to have deemed you a temptress, Ragna,” he said. “And now I will _drag_ you to that bed, if necessary.” While she did not entirely understand _why,_ the threat made her breath catch, and she arched into his touch. “Or perhaps,” he continued, voice darkening, “I could find a bookshelf to pin you against, just like in your _wicked_ little dreams. Would you like that, darling?”

Ragna closed her eyes and dropped her head back against his chest, surrendering to the tantalizing sensation on his hand sliding down her belly. “No,” she protested weakly.

“Oh, but I think you _would._ I could easily order for the palace library to be closed when we return, and I could spend an entire day there, _studying_ you to my heart’s content.” His fingers pressed between her thighs, and she belatedly wondered if neglecting to wear undergarments had been a mistake, for the thin material of her gown alone did little to hide her responsiveness.

Something instinctively urged her to argue with him, and so she managed to say, “That is… an _improper_ use of power.”

“I intend to do far worse, I assure you.”

But unexpectedly, Loki released her then, and she turned to face him, surprised to find an almost-gentle sort of look in his eyes. “Help me to undress, wife.”

Her fingers shook slightly as she reached out to unbutton his tunic, somewhat taken aback, as she had expected him to simply rip her gown open and throw her down on the bed. It wasn’t as if she’d never seen him this way; in fact, he slept bare-chested fairly often. Still, somehow, the act of sliding the cloth over his shoulders and down his arms felt terribly intimate, and if possible, Ragna was certain that her already-pink cheeks grew brighter still.

“Go on,” he softly urged when she hesitated, a faint smile on his lips.

Fortunately, attempting to figure out how to unfasten the surprisingly-complicated buckle of his belt gave her something to fixate on other than the king’s increasingly-heated stare, and by the time she finally managed to yank the clasp free, she’d _almost_ managed to forget how bashful she was supposed to be. Then she realized that nothing was left but to remove his trousers, and she balked, looking up at him in mortification.

Loki brushed his knuckles along her cheek. “Don’t stop,” he said, and she could not tell if it was meant as an order, or a plea. “I am yours for the taking.”

Taking a deep breath, she finished untying the lacing, then she slipped her fingers under the leather waistband of his trousers and began pushing them down, some part of her secretly thrilling at the fact that the act made him groan. By the time they’d reached his knees, he seemed eager to offer his assistance if it would speed things along, and before she even had time to blink, the king stood before her entirely nude.

He made no move to capture her again, and Ragna looked to him in confusion. “What… what do I do now?”

“Whatever you desire,” he replied, and though there was laughter in his voice, it did not seem to be mocking. “As I said, I am yours.”

“Oh.” For a moment or two, she simply traced her fingers along his chest, admiring the way his muscles seemed to tense under her touch; it emboldened her, this sensation of having him all to herself to explore as she wished. Ragna kept her eyes on the king’s face as she allowed her hands to slip lower, enraptured by the way his eyes fluttered closed when her fingernails lightly scraped against his hip bones. He was all hard muscle and smooth skin and somehow both cool and warm to the touch, and she realized suddenly that her nightgown was, in fact, at least one layer of separation too many.

His jaw clenched when she took him in her hand, and he seemed to be struggling to stay still, watching her with hooded eyes, for she still felt too shy to look anywhere but his face. A few experimental strokes later found him breathing rather heavily, and Ragna decided that even more boldness might be in order. “Whatever I desire?” she asked hesitantly.

“Yes,” Loki rasped. “Anything.”

She took a step back, anxiously clenching her fists at her side. “Undress _me,_ then, husband.”

He looked incredibly relieved, and she wondered if he had expected her to order him from the room, now that he’d promised her anything she wanted. “Gladly.”

Though Loki managed not to _rip_ it this time, she was fairly certain that she lost a few buttons in his haste, and soon her nightgown was nothing more than a pool of fabric on the floor. His hands found her hips and pulled her close, and the feeling of his arousal pressed against her stomach did terrible things to her composure. “Anything else?” he asked, his voice beginning to sound a bit strained.

“Yes,” Ragna said. “Show me what you feel for me.”

There was no time to second-guess her words, as he immediately hoisted her from her feet and tumbled them onto the bed; it was uncharacteristically ungraceful (for Loki, at least) and that somehow made her feel even more powerful. He kissed her roughly as he settled over her, breaking away when she squirmed beneath him to try and alleviate some of the building pressure. “I must confess that, at the moment, I am primarily feeling impatience.”

Ragna did not know how to respond to that, so she instead chose to pull him down for another kiss. His tongue and his teeth traced a teasing path down first one breast, and then the other, and by the time he pressed his fingers inside of her, she was practically ready to beg for relief.

She tugged on his hair to guide him back over her again, strangely delighted by the feeling of being trapped beneath him. “You are not _helping_ my impatience, Ragna,” he informed her gravely, and she wrapped her legs around his hips in response, too far gone to care any longer about being bashful or hesitant.

The grunt he made put a slightly smug smile on her own face, and she pulled him closer so that she could whisper in his ear: “I know.”

His expression regained some of its savageness then, and her heart fluttered at the realization of just how _much_ he’d been holding back. “You are a cruel mistress, my lady,” he growled, and then he surged forward without warning, surprising her with just how _right_ it felt, despite the slight discomfort as she adjusted to his size. “But I can be cruel, as well.”

She soon realized what he’d meant; he slowly increased his pace until she felt that delicious fire racing through her veins and building in her core, and then he simply… stopped. And then he did it again. Ragna dug her fingers into his back, whining in protest, but Loki was immovable, and now _he_ was the one with the self-satisfied smile once again.

 _Why_ did he have to be so troublesome? “I _desire_ satisfaction,” she practically snarled, and that seemed to break whatever control he had over himself, thrusting roughly into her with a determined glint in his eye. It was close - so close that it was painful, and she cried out when he slightly adjusted the angle of her hips, for now it was _perfect_ _and just what she needed and…_

“Loki?” she gasped, dazedly wondering what she had to do to find the release that she so desperately craved, for if she had thought herself on fire before, now she was lightning itself, nothing but sensation and brightness and raw electricity.  

“Yes, Ragna,” he crooned, “Come for me, please.”

Then the brightness became blinding, and she clung to him for dear life as the shocks overtook her, nearly certain that she was flying into pieces. “Look at me,” the king demanded, and she obeyed, wondering if she’d only imagined the flash of red in his eyes as he tensed and, with one final thrust, spilled inside her.

He fell to the bed at her side, a breathless laugh escaping as he rested his head on her shoulder, one of his legs still stretched over hers. “Did you get what you desired, little queen?”

“Yes,” Ragna murmured as she stroked his hair, suddenly finding herself terribly sleepy. “I think that I rather _like_ being a cruel mistress.”

“This comes as no surprise to me at all.”

“Hmph.” She blinked, trying to force herself to stay awake, for she was sweaty and sticky and no doubt looked frightful. “I should bathe.”

“No,” he replied, closing his eyes and tightening his grip as a blanket simply _appeared_ on top of them. “It can wait. Your lord and master has spoken.”

Far too comfortable and content to argue, Ragna fell asleep with her husband, the King of the Nine Realms, wrapped in her arms.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please indulge me this chapter of fluff and smut, oh lovely readers, before our hero and heroine get thrown back into reality. <3


	25. The Idyllic Interlude

When Loki awoke some time later from what was likely the best sleep of his life, he was surprised to find that he had not shifted a single inch, his head still nestled in the crook of Ragna’s arm. The position gave him a marvelously up-close view of the gentle rise and fall of her chest, and he carefully eased back the blanket that covered her, still slightly in awe of the fact that she was now totally, unquestionably _his._ His, and his alone.

Would the Norns truly grant him such a boon?

Unable to resist, he slid his hand from her belly to her breast, admiring the smooth softness of her skin. His quickly-growing arousal demanded that he wake her immediately, while another part of him wished to simply stay like this for awhile, content and peaceful. He should likely enjoy this moment for as long as possible, as he had a nagging fear that she would be full of regret once she’d come to and realized what she’d done.

And what had _he_ done? _Exactly what you wanted,_ his inner voice whispered. Was that such a terrible thing? Likely so, Loki decided, but he would happily burn in Hel for it.

She began to stir after a few moments, likely roused by the chill of the air against her bared skin, and he tried his best not to hum with happiness at the way her fingers rubbed across his back in a soothing caress. “It is still night,” she mumbled, nuzzling against his hair.

“Yes. I do not think we slept more than a few hours.”

“I am hungry.”

Loki smiled; he’d been worrying that she would shove him away and curse his name, and instead she was petting him and demanding food. “I am also rather famished. It was a long, exciting day.” Gently squeezing her breast, he added, “And perhaps it will be a long, exciting night, as well.”

She took a sharp breath, and Loki glanced up to find her eyes half-closed, her cheeks already a faint pink. “Would that be amenable to you, my lady?”

 _“Your Majesty,”_ she muttered.

“What was that?”

“We are both _Your Majesties_ now, Loki,” she informed him gravely, though he could see the teasing sparkle in her eyes.

“Ah, I fear you are mistaken, for you have not yet had a coronation. I will, perhaps, permit you a _Your Highness_ every now and again, for I suppose being wed to me does automatically elevate you from your lowly station.”

She gave his hair a sharp tug. “My ‘lowly station,’ indeed. You should not speak ill of my family, for they are now yours, as well, even if they do not know it yet.”

And then Loki’s heart froze, for he suddenly remembered that her blasted brother was still in the palace dungeon.

 _I’ll have to get rid of him without a fuss,_ he thought, mind racing. _I cannot let her know that he was there… and I must ensure that he does not keep searching after her._

Although… allowing for a family visit _would_ be a very, _very_ handsome wedding gift, and Loki was currently feeling remarkably eager to please. _Especially_ considering the sweet, responsive way she now pressed against his touch; it was actually rather difficult to think of anything _other_ than ensuring that she remained pleased with him, in fact.

 _Oh dear,_ he mused as he rolled atop her, _I might’ve created a monster._

Her eyes widened as he settled between her thighs, and her flush deepened. “You wish to… to _have_ me again? Already?”

“Of course,” he replied, trying to suppress his smirk. “We must consummate our union.”

Ragna’s brow furrowed in confusion. “But we have already consummated our union.”

“Oh no, darling. That was simply me exercising my ‘droit du seigneur’; I am certain that you are familiar with the concept, as it features rather _heavily_ in some of those dreadful stories you read.”

“That is not an _actual_ legal right!” she spluttered, but he ignored her, digging his fingers into her hair as he turned his attention to the delicate skin of her throat, which he was determined to mark.

“Is it not? _Hmm._ Well, the Allfather’s word is law, so I’m afraid you have no room to argue.”

And truly, her arguments _did_ seem to fade rather quickly, particularly when his teeth scraped lightly against her jugular; he’d never had such a strong urge to bite and mark and bury himself in a woman before, and he wondered if perhaps that should concern him. He was much too far gone to give it further thought.

A soft rumbling caught his attention, and he leaned back, regarding her with raised brows. “Was that your stomach?”

‘Yes,” Ragna mumbled, clearly mortified. “I told you that I was hungry.”

Should he keep her in bed and devour her, or show some restraint? He could admittedly use something to eat, as well, and they _did_ have the rest of the night… “Very well,” he said. “We shall replenish our strength before we continue.”

“You speak very boldly, my king.”

“As do you, _cruel_ little mistress.” She squeezed her eyes closed in embarrassment at the reminder, and Loki laughed, climbing from the bed. Ragna sat up to follow him, then winced, pulling the blanket up to cover herself.

“It is cold,” she said, “and I am sore. Carry me.”

“You are exploiting your new position,” he teasingly accused, though he scooped her in his arms nonetheless.

“Of course I am.”

 _Of course she was._ He smiled faintly, carrying her to the main room and depositing her on the couch by the fire, which burst back into a full blaze with a wave of his hand. “Do not move,” he said. “I suppose you expect me to spoil you now.”

“I do.” She affected the haughtiness of a stuffy high-born noblewoman rather well, and Loki found it highly amusing. “You have called me a nagging wife for the past week, and now I fully intend to earn the title.”

Retrieving their hamper from the table where it had been hastily deposited earlier that day, he moved to sit beside her. Ragna looked incredibly charming, wrapped haphazardly in her cozy little blanket, her golden hair frizzy and tangled, a few prominent reddening marks on her neck. Perhaps he should take her gowns away again, for he quite liked the idea of her roaming around his chambers in nothing but a bedsheet.

“You are thinking something wicked. I can see it in your eyes.”

“I am. I am imagining how delightful it would be to have a pretty little goddess waiting naked in my chambers when I return each day from the tedious task of being Allfather.”

She snorted, a rather unladylike sound for a new queen, and reached for the hamper. “We shall see.”

 _Well,_ he thought, a bit taken aback, _that certainly sounds promising._

They both ate quickly; on Loki’s part, this was due to his eagerness to take her back to bed, and he hoped that perhaps she was feeling the same. However, when she was finished, Ragna cleared her throat, pushing herself to her feet. “I am going to clean up,” she said, awkwardly shuffling back towards the bedchamber with her blankets trailing behind her like the train of a gown.

“You really should wait,” he replied, catching hold of the fabric. “I am only going to make you dirty again.”

“Loki.” She said it pleadingly, and he realized that she was somehow ashamed of the state he’d left her in; while he considered it a ridiculous worry, he _did_ want her to feel as enthused by their activities as he did, and so he relented.

“Fine, but I am accompanying you this time.” Surprisingly, she did not protest, and as soon as they were in the bathing room, he began to tug her blanket away. “I have noticed,” he commented casually, “that you appear to be unable to look anywhere but my face. Why _is_ that, Ragna?”

Frowning, she clutched the fabric against her chest. “You know that it is because you are shamelessly naked, _Loki.”_

“Why should I have shame? You are my wife. Besides, you seemed pleased enough with my form earlier in the night.”

Embarrassment colored her cheeks. “That was different,” she protested. “We were… in the moment. I did not expect this… this _domestic_ nudity.” She waved her hand at him accusingly, and the motion made her blanket slip lower, much to his delight.

“Then let us _return_ to the moment,” he replied cheekily, and when he pulled on the blanket again, she allowed it to slip through her fingers, though she still looked a bit mortified. He was certain that he’d be able to remedy that easily enough. “Fill the bath,” he said, “if you are truly so desperate to have one.”

She muttered something unintelligible as she leaned awkwardly over the edge of the bath to reach for the tap, clearly horrified to be so on-display in the bright light of the bathing room.

“What was that?” he asked, though he already had a fair idea.

“I said that you could’ve turned this on with your magic,” she huffed, struggling to get her hand on the faucet handle without bending over and exposing herself completely. She was not successful, and Loki grinned wickedly, enjoying the opportunity to peruse.

“This is much more satisfying.”

 _“Norns.”_ Water finally began to pour into the bath, and Ragna clambered in, crossing her arms as she continued to frown at him in displeasure.

“You should know by now, _darling,_ that your pouting does nothing to dissuade me. In fact, I would go so far as to say that I regard it as something of a challenge.”

“I am not pouting.”

“You are.” He rolled his eyes at the way she kept her gaze averted when he climbed in after her. The water was _scalding._ “Do you mean to melt me?” he asked, advancing on her with a tone of false nicety. “Do you suppose that regicide will save you now, Lady Ragna?”

Her eyes narrowed in disbelief. “Did you truly just make a jest about being Jötunn?”

Loki paused for a moment, taken aback. “Yes,” he said. “I suppose I did.” And then, _just_ as his heart began to sink at the realization that he’d reminded her of the fact that she was married to a monster from another realm, her lips curled up and she laughed.

“I suppose I will have to add that to my list of options,” she teased, “in case I ever decide to make a claim for the throne. I’m certain that I could deal with _you_ easily enough; then it would simply be a matter of handling Thor, and _I_ would become Queen of the Nine Realms.”

The fear in his heart simply _dissipated,_ brushed away easily by the mischief in her eyes. “I did not realize that you were so ambitious, my lady. Should I sleep with one eye open?”

Ragna smiled wryly, dragging her fingers along the surface of the water. “Is that what you did when you truly believed that I had attempted to assassinate you?”

“No,” he admitted, and then he’d finally slipped near enough to capture her by the waist and pull her into his lap, her back flush against his chest. “I was not careful enough in my handling of you. A wiser king would have sent you away in chains. I suppose I was beguiled.” He felt her begin to relax slightly against him, and he leaned his head against hers, simply enjoying the _peace_ of it all.

“Can you turn the water golden again?” Ragna asked suddenly, a curious, hopeful note in her voice.

“Of course.”

She hummed in pleasure as he did so, trailing her fingers through the the shimmering liquid. “I like this. It is pretty, is it not?”

“It is.” And then, because he had _clearly_ tipped over the edge into total insanity, he offered to wash her hair.

A happy sigh escaped her as his fingers worked against her scalp. “I was warned about you, you know,” she said after a moment, tilting her head back as she sought out more of his touch.

“Oh?”

“Yes. Particularly after the time I was caught alongside you all raiding the kitchens. My mother was _not_ pleased.”

Loki searched his memory, conjuring up the image of a tiny slip of a girl who liked to wear tunics and simple braids and laughed at all of his tricks. So much had happened since those days, and it _stung,_ almost, that he could not remember them more clearly. “You were keeping guard with Fandral in the hallway,” he said slowly, trying to will the memory back. “You had your hair tied up, and the guard that discovered us grabbed you up by your collar, mistaking you for a boy.”

She snorted. “And _you_ fled,” she said accusingly, “taking that _entire_ trifle with you.”

“Of course I did. It was not _my_ fault that the rest of you were slow enough to get caught.”

“I did not have the privilege of being a prince, of course, or of being a boy. Mother warned that I was going to end up with an unpleasant reputation. Even though they have always been incredibly lax with me, I think my parents feared that between the mischief and the mortal blood, I would never end up well-married.”

“Well,” he said, trying to keep his voice light, “they were either incredibly right to be worried about your prospects or incredibly _wrong,_ for now you are wed to a king, though that king is _me.”_

He tugged on a fistful of her hair, craning her neck and twisting her in his lap to rinse her long tresses, combing his finger through the tangles with something akin to careful reverence.

“Loki?”

“Yes?”

“Will it always be like this?”

As he look down at her, he felt something painful twist in his chest, because he _sincerely_ doubted that it would; he had always seemed to lack the ability to make anything _good_ last for very long. “I do not know.” It was, at least, the truth.

“Ah.” A contemplative look appeared in her eyes, and Loki pulled her back against his chest again, allowing his hands to wander, hoping to distract her from grim thoughts.

He felt her stiffen and then wiggle slightly as he stroked her skin under the water, and he smiled against her hair. “What other memories do you have of me, wife?”

“Well, I remember being terrified after you cut Sif’s hair, expecting that I might be next.”

“A harmless jest,” he said dismissively. “And I made it grow back, did I not?”

“But it was the wrong color!”

Loki laughed at her indignation. “She should have thanked me, for it suits her far better now.”

His fingers slipped between her thighs, and Ragna took a sharp breath, her back curving against him. “Do you have no _fond_ memories?” he asked pleasantly, wickedly amused by how _tense_ her little body became in anticipation.

“I… I do,” she replied, and then her breath caught in her throat as he began to make gentle circles; he was in no hurry, really, and he rather liked the feeling of having her entirely at his mercy.

“Do tell.” Ragna whined as he slid a finger inside of her, just for the briefest moment, and then he resumed his languid caresses. “Go on, girl. Speak.”

“I… I remember a time in the library,” she said. “Do you remember how often I used to stay there?”

“Yes. Nothing has changed.” And then, remembering with a sudden flare of jealousy how _close_ she seemed to be with the librarian apprentice, he took to her neck with his teeth and tongue, earning an _extremely_ satisfying moan from the little goddess in his arms. “Continue.”

“Well,” she said, her voice rising slight in pitch, “I had just returned from a winter in Ringsfjord, and I had not seen you for some time. There was a book that I could not reach, and it was a book on High Elven archery in one of the sections that was _technically_ not open to the public, so I could not ask the librarian for assistance.”

“You were - _ah!_ \- you were there sitting in an armchair with a book, avoiding one of your tutors, and I asked you for help, thinking you could pull it down with your sorcery. But then -“ She broke off, wiggling desperately. “Please,” she implored, “I cannot talk while-“

“You can,” he said. “And you will, or I will stop. Is that what you want?”

A strangled sound of frustration escaped her, and Loki knew that she would likely try to see him repaid, but he thought it well worth it. “Then you stood,” she managed. “You stood, and you had grown so _tall._ You reached up and pulled it from the shelf, and then you looked down at me and _laughed.”_

“And this is a fond memory?”

_“Yes.”_

Frowning slightly, he tried to bring the memory into clarity, frustrated to find that he _couldn’t,_ though the general sense of recollection was there. “May I see it?”

“See…?” The whine in her voice became more pronounced, and she reached back to grab a fistful of his hair, tugging his mouth back to her neck.

“Demanding wench,” he murmured against her skin. “May I see this memory of yours?”

She nodded helplessly, and Loki pressed a hand to her temple, sliding easily into her mind - he wondered briefly if it was because she was so distracted, or because she was so willing.

He opened his eyes to find that he was staring up at a younger version of himself, still a bit gangly, with short hair and a mischievous smile. There was a book in his extended hand, and something like pride sparkled in his eyes as he offered it. _“Welcome back, Ragna,”_ he’d said. _“We’ve missed you.”_

Loki could _feel_ in her memory how her heart swelled at that, how happy she was that he remembered her, that he’d _missed_ her, how impressed and flustered she was by how he’d grown since she’d seen him last.

And then the sensation jolted as the memory returned to him from his own perspective, and he saw her as she had been all those centuries ago. He was surprised to find that his younger self was _actually, genuinely_ pleased to see her again, proud of the bracelet she still wore on her wrist and the way she bowed and called him _Your Highness,_ preening at the way he made her blush.

It _was_ a happy memory; why had he forgotten it?

Withdrawing from the memory, he returned to pressing kisses along her throat, for he could feel that she grew close, and he wished to make it as slow and languid as possible. “That did not hurt, did it?”

“No, sire.”

He stirred then, _certain_ that she had used his title not out of respect, but simply in a conniving attempt to speed him along. “Perhaps I should’ve questioned you like this in the beginning,” he suggested. “You are much more… cooperative.”

Raina’s grip on his hair grew tighter. _“Torture,”_ she muttered accusingly.

“Yes,” Loki said, “and I find myself rather fond of it.” He pressed his fingers inside of her again, and Ragna cried out, gripping his wrist.

 _“Please,_ Loki.”

“Whenever you are ready, darling,” he murmured against her ear, “you may come for me.”

He’d expected it to take a moment or two more, but the words themselves apparently had too profound an effect on her, for the little goddess rocked against him as she came apart, his name on her lips, the molten gold gleam of the water rippling violently around them.

Prying her fingers from their death-grip on his hair, he stood, pulling his loose-limbed bride to her feet and all but dragging her from the bath. He retrieved a towel and rubbed them both down quickly, clumsy in his eagerness. “To the fireside,” he said, grabbing her by the hand and leading her along, “to dry.”

Ragna followed along beside him on wobbling legs, her cheeks flushed and breath quick. He loved seeing her by the firelight, all glowing and golden and _warm._ “Forgive me,” he said as he laid her down on the couch and climbed atop her, “I lied; I do not care about your hair drying. I simply wished to have you by the fire.”

Surprisingly, his confession caused her to smile, and she twined her arms around his neck. “Then stop _talking,”_ she said, a teasing gleam in her eyes, “and _have_ me.”

 

* * *

 

Preparing to leave their isolated haven the next morning was no small feat. Though he did fret over leaving his kingdom in the hands of his council for any period of time, and he worried over the state of his illusions while his seiðr was spread so thin, he was _also_ very reluctant to leave. Once they were back in the palace, things would be different; he would have to deal with her brother, and the plot, and the assassins, and the usual tiresome business of running the kingdom… their tranquil little idyll would be swept away. The thought pained him.

Happiness made Loki suspicious, and so he tried to be a bit more teasing and incorrigible that morning, masking his worries that something was bound to go terribly, horribly wrong. “I see that you are still resistant to the idea of domestic nudity,” he said, watching her from where he stood by the fire as she exited the bedchamber, dressed like a proper lady in her gown and cloak.

“Yes, and in any case, I certainly do not intend to go teleporting across the realm naked.”

He laughed and extinguished the fire with a wave. “You are fortunate that we must go outside of the wards to make the jump back to the palace,” he said, “or I would be more insistent.”

Ragna shuddered a little at the flow of magic as he moved beside her and restored their glamors. “I do not understand why this is necessary,” she said, frowning down at the jet-black hair that now hung down past her shoulders. “Can you not transport yourself from within these wards? You do it from your chambers in the palace.”

“I can,” he replied, taking her hand, “but these spells are not only mine, and it will make the sensation much less pleasant for you, I assure you. If you are struggling already with the sensation of my seiðr, feeling different threads of magic twisting and pushing against each other will likely be quite jarring.”

“Oh.” She looked a bit peaky at the thought of it, and Loki led her outside into the snow, turning to seal the door behind them. “Can we come back to this place someday, sire?”

They stood at the top of the hill for a few moments, both looking out over the frozen lake, fresh and crisp and gleaming in the morning light. “Yes,” he said finally, surprised and greatly unsettled by the wave of emotion that swelled in his chest. “Yes, I would like that very much.”

 

* * *

 

He had not truly realized just how _drained_ he was from the overextension of his powers until they appeared in the Allfather’s chambers, too caught up in the intrigue and then his overwhelming, boyish excitement to romance his pretty little bride. Now, as she clung to him for support while the side-effects of the jump wore off, Loki began to sag, feeling a deep weariness creeping though his bones.

Ever-perceptive, Ragna noticed almost immediately. “You are exhausted,” she said, wrapping her arms about his waist as if _she_ were the one supporting _him._ “You should spend the day in bed, sire.” And then, once she saw his suggestive smile beginning to take form, she quickly clarified, _“Sleeping,_ Loki. You should spend the day in bed _actually_ sleeping.”

Sighing, he rested his forehead against hers for a moment, then released them from their glamors and went to check on the shimmering form of Odin on the bed. Thankfully, it had not been disturbed, which suggested that his ruse had not garnered any unwanted attention. He waved it away.

“I cannot,” he said. “I have neglected my duties for long enough, particularly with our little cabin retreat - which was, I might add, _entirely_ worth it. But now I must return to my position; the Norns only know what the court has managed to get up to in the king’s absence.”

“Hang the court,” Ragna said with surprising conviction. “If you are too spent to maintain your illusions, then you will be in terrible danger.”

“I do not intend to collapse on the throne, my lady,” he drawled, though he was secretly thrilled by her concern. “I will be fine, and when I return to you tonight, you may fuss over me to your heart’s content.”

“If that is what you wish, sire,” she sighed, and then she followed as he made his way into the sitting room and conjured up a tray from the kitchen, containing all of her usual favorites. “Will you dine with me this morning?”

“I wish that I could.” He placed a kiss on her brow, hoping that she understood just how deeply he meant it. “But the sooner I get back to things, the better. You know that we face many dangers, both visible and hidden.”

“I understand.” She looked glum, and Loki felt a pang of guilt, realizing that he was essentially dropping her back into a prison where she would have no choice but to while away her day alone.

“I will make it up to you, little queen,” he said, smiling at the way the title made her blush as he tucked an errant strand of hair behind her ear. “Tonight. I promise.”

Then he walked towards the door, taking on Odin Allfather’s form, and vanished himself away before he had time to change his mind.

 

* * *

 

There was a reason, Loki thought as he sat at the head of the table in his council room, that many kings became debauched and lazy and turned their attentions to entertainment and leisure. Running a kingdom when one had to listen to so many squabbling, arrogant nobles was _exceptionally_ frustrating. It was even worse knowing that, once he was done here, he would have to go to his throne room and address even more complaints and grievances.

It was not that he did not enjoy the power, or the control - rather, it was the fact that his control was limited, that he was expected to sit silently and _listen_ to the fools; _that_ was what drove him mad. In a perfect world, he would simply tell them all what to do, and they would _do_ it. The Allfather _did_ have the power to do whatever he wanted; perhaps he needed to begin reinforcing that fact.

“I do not _care_ what the people say,” he finally snapped at one of the lords who was busy blathering away. “Jotunheim is currently no threat to us, and we have neither the _cause_ nor the resources to start a war.” He could imagine perfectly how Odin would say the words, his tone clipped and brooking no argument; it was one of the most useful things Loki had ever learned from him. “I have looked into the matter _myself,_ and Asgard will be at peace with the Jötnar until _I_ say otherwise.”

“As Your Majesty commands,” the man said with a bowed head, clearly chagrined.

“Has there been word from Eitri?” Loki asked, tamping down an irritated sigh.

“No, sire,” one of the other lords answered. “And we have heard rumors that the Ljósálfar court is displeased that they have not been included in the negotiations.”

“This matter does not concern the elves. They simply fear that Nidavellir will grow strong again with Asgardian support; they have never lain their former enmity to rest.”

“Sire, the Vanir sent word seeking your counsel, as well.”

Loki’s ears pricked up at the mention of Vanaheim, the supposed location of his little handmaiden; had the attackers thought to find her there? “What counsel do the Vanir seek?”

“It is said that there is a blight in the western provinces, in the mountain valleys that are usually so fertile. It is one of their growing seasons, and they predict a tremendous impact if things are not dealt with quickly.”

He frowned; the Vanir were a people with a strong tendency for magical proficiency - if they thought the matter concerning enough to consult the Allfather…

“Send word that I welcome them to be our guests at the palace at any time,” he said. “If the cause is unnatural, it could be used against Asgard, as well.”

There were murmurs of concern from around the room, and also some looks of disapproval. Loki knew that many of the lords did not feel particularly inclined to send resources and aid off-realm, particularly since the Vanir had been somewhat _difficult_ of late, but they also feared Odin's wrath, believing that he would consider it an insult to his late queen. While Loki did not particularly _care_ that Frigga had been from Vanaheim, nor did he hold any particular attachment to the place, he also wished to ensure that he had a firm grip on the entirely of the Nine Realms; it would be good to remind them all that it was _Asgard_ that sat at the top of Yggdrasil.

Once he had finally rid himself of them all, he made his way to his great throne, head beginning to pound. He thought to Ragna, waiting in his chambers, and grit his teeth, assuring himself that he could make it through the day, for she would be there to soothe his weariness away once he’d returned.

“Bjarke,” he said to the Einherji at his side, “see that Davyn Askrson is brought before me. I would think that these days in the dungeons might have stayed his temper.”

“Of course, Allfather,” the man replied, saluting. “Though I have heard he has been quite belligerent.” There was a touch of amusement in his voice, and Loki sighed.

“I am plagued by foolish, reckless youth, old friend,” he said. “It is the curse of being an old man, I suppose.”

“Indeed, sire. We were those reckless youth once, and no doubt our revered fathers thought the same.”

He smiled, though it felt rather grim; he could hardly imagine _Odin_ as a reckless youth. “No doubt.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, so I couldn't resist a *little* more honeymoon time before I shipped them off back to the palace. But I figure they deserve it, y'know? Being King of the Nine Realms is hard, and so is dealing with the King of the Nine Realms. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> Thank you for your comments, and keep up with me over on [Tumblr](https://maiden-of-asgard.tumblr.com/) if you ever want to inspire me with some Loki gifs, haha <3


	26. The Return

It had been a bizarre sort of day for Ragna Askrdóttir, the new and secret Queen of the Nine Realms. Swept up in the madness of her sudden, unexpected marriage to the God of Lies, she’d almost forgotten what awaited her once they’d returned to the palace.

And now, here she sat, reading in front of the Allfather’s fireplace like nothing had changed in the slightest. It was almost as if it had all been a dream… as if none of it had ever happened.

 _What had she done?_ The neatly-printed script on the pages before her began to swim as the reality of it all came crashing down on her shoulders. _Norns, what had she done?_

When Loki had been there beside her, looking at her with those wild, demanding, _beautiful_ eyes of his and sliding his hands along her skin, it had been easy enough to get entrapped in the passion of it all, the _romance._ It had been easy to simply follow her heart, to tie herself for an eternity to the man she _loved,_ though he still had not told her that he loved her in return.

She’d given in to him, and while she did not regret it, she still felt terribly, horribly _overwhelmed._

 _“Oh, Loki.”_ Ragna stared at the ring on her finger, suddenly on the verge of inexplicable tears. “What happens now?”

If only she could speak to her mother, or even to one of the other maids... Ragna was not prepared for wedded life; she’d expected to have another decade or so before her parents started looking for a match for her, at least. And what would her mother do if she _could_ tell her about her sudden elopement with Loki Laufeyson, or the rest of her family, for that matter?

Therein lay another concern, because her family would be looking for a match sooner or later, even if she was on an extended assignment on Vanaheim. Her father could demand that she be recalled to Asgard for a betrothal, and then… well, what then? Would Loki simply refuse? Spin a story that she’d died while off-realm?

Trying to push her worries aside, she closed her eyes and brought back images of their painfully short honeymoon, thinking of how terribly enraptured the king had seemed as he’d lavished his attentions on her, both gentle and savage. He certainly did not seem to find her _lacking,_ at least. In fact, he seemed rather enthused by her shy responsiveness to his body. It was an exploration that Ragna was embarrassingly eager to continue.

She began to feel her skin heat as her thoughts took a definitively _lascivious_ turn, and Ragna quickly stood and paced about the room, ashamed of herself for being so terribly wanton. There _had_ to be something more productive she could do to occupy her time.

As she watched scattered snowflakes spin by outside the window, her thoughts turned to Jotunheim; the Realm of the Frost Giants seemed to be a recurring element in their investigations, and Ragna was nearly certain that Loki would need to face the Jötnar queen sooner or later. From what they had seen so far, it seemed as though _someone_ was trying to stir up old enmity, to start another all-out war with the Frost Giants. The question that kept circling back again over and over in her mind was _why?_

Who stood to benefit from a war between the Æsir and the Jötnar, particularly at a time when the Nine Realms was facing unprecedented instability? It was true that Odin had many enemies scattered across the realms, as did Loki, but she couldn’t imagine that _anyone_ would want to court the level of danger that came along with threatening the Allfather.

 _Yes,_ it would likely be for the best if the king arranged a meeting with Queen Fárbauti, and the sooner, the better. Ragna wondered if there was any possibility that she would be able to convince Loki that this was the best course of action; she decided that she had no choice but to try.

Focusing on the conspiracy provided her with a bit of an outlet for her nervous energy, and Ragna pulled out a piece of paper and began to make a rough copy of the map of Asgard, noting down points of interest for their investigation. There were the passages to Jotunheim found near the royal family’s hunting lodge in Nastrond, as well as Lord Agviðr’s holdings near Esklundr… and then there was the palace itself, which _should_ be entirely secure, but apparently _wasn’t._  

There was also still the worrying fact that, as far as the Warriors Three had been able to uncover, the assassin that had nearly managed to kill her had spent time in Ringsfjord before making his way to Nastrond, and then to the capital city. She certainly hadn’t known _him,_ but was it possible, somehow, that he had known _her?_ Was her family at risk?

It was a possibility that Ragna had not considered, but now that the thought had occurred, she could not will it away. _If_ the assassin was after her now, specifically, then why would the conspirators _not_ try to use her family against her?

She would have to ask the king to give consideration to the matter once he returned; while he might not be particularly _eager_ to extend his resources any further, she trusted that he would wish to ensure that her family was kept safe from harm.

Besides, were they not his kin now, as well?

Loki probably would not appreciate the reminder. Family was a bit of a _touchy_ subject.

Either way, Ragna now knew that she had some leverage over the God of Lies, and she fully intended to use it. It was what _he_ would do, after all.

Sometime after lunch, she’d taken a break from her research and picked up her flute, trying to remember the notes to a pretty little ballad about a woman who took up arms to join her true love in battle - a ballad at which her new husband, no doubt, would turn up his regal nose.

 _And yet he sweeps me off to a beautiful lake to elope,_ she mused, a smile playing at her lips as she surveyed the room that had come to feel as though it were _theirs._

“My husband.” It still sounded odd, to say the words aloud, and Ragna giggled, unable to hold back just a twinge of girlish excitement over the fact that she was _married_ to _him._

_After so many years._

“My king and husband, Loki Laufeyson.”

She tried to imagine the looks on the faces of the other handmaidens as she said it - what would _they_ think?

Tove would likely be thrilled for her, for she dearly loved a good forbidden romance. Solveig, on the other hand… well, it likely depended on the current king’s status at the time of the revelation. If Loki were publicly in the position of Allfather, she would no doubt be awed. Were it to be after he was ousted from power, Ragna imagined that she would be sharp and disapproving.

 _But that will not happen,_ she told herself. _Even when Prince Thor returns, surely he will see that Loki is fit to be king, that he has the capability to rule Asgard and the Nine Realms as Allfather._

Though, there _was_ the matter of Odin’s disappearance to consider… but Ragna was _certain,_ somehow, that Loki had not killed him. Was it misguided faith in the boy that he’d once been, the devoted son and honorable prince?

 _Perhaps._ But it was an unshakable, undying faith, all the same.

A scraping sound just outside the massive doors to the hall set her on sudden alert, the hairs on her arms standing on-end.

 _It is only the changing of the guard._ What else could it possibly be, in the middle of the day? With the Allfather out and about his business in the palace, there was no reason for anyone to stop by his chambers. He would’ve warned her if she’d needed to stay hidden in the bedchamber.

There were muffled voices, and Ragna crept closer to the door, her flute in hand, thankful that the charms on Loki’s chambers allowed sound in and did not let it out.

If it did, then surely whoever was outside of the door could hear the pounding of her heart.

“Odin Allfather is on his throne holding court,” came a gruff voice she vaguely recognized as belonging to one of the Einherjar most frequently posted outside the king’s chambers. “Take your business to him there, my lord.”

“It is urgent that I speak with him _privately,_ in regards to Vanaheim.”

“Then I might suggest you make your way to the audience hall and make a request of his time. You cannot _wait_ here.”

“Very well.”

Ragna pressed her ear against the wood, frowning in concentration as she strained to clearly make out the lord’s voice - she did not recognize it, and after mumbling something indecipherable in irritation, it sounded as though he’d given up and walked away.

_Vanaheim? What of Vanaheim?_

It couldn’t possibly have anything to do with _her,_ could it? Softly shuffling over to the window, Ragna peered out at the Sea of Space in the distance, and at the Bifrost Bridge that stretched over it, gleaming and newly-restored.

She wondered, then, if Loki might be convinced to allow her to _truly_ travel off-realm; no one would miss her or know to look for her, as she was _already_ hidden away, and in many ways, she would be far more undetectable than the Trickster God and his shielded magic.

 _If_ he would allow such a thing, then Ragna might be able to investigate the origins of the mysterious elf-bride from Agviðr’s estate. _And…_ well, she had no hopes that he might agree to it, but Ragna was eager to see Jotunheim for herself. There had been diplomats from other realms in the Jötnar court, at one point in the ancient past. She could play the part convincingly enough.

 _You’re getting much too far ahead of yourself, Ragna._ And that was true - Loki would not even allow her to roam about by herself in his own realm; he would likely never to agree to let her do anything as potentially dangerous as spying on other realms.

_But it cannot hurt to suggest it._

After all, she had pledged herself to a lifetime of listening to _his_ wild schemes, so why should the God of Lies not do the same?

 

* * *

 

It was late when Loki finally returned to her, even more pallid and tired-looking than usual. Ragna was in his arms almost at once.

“My king!” she said, smiling brightly in a manner that she hoped might lift his spirits. “Come, sit.”

She tugged him by his hand over to the couch, and a hint of a smile began to play at the corner of the king’s mouth. “You have been waiting all day to command me, it seems.”

“You _did_ say that I might fuss over you once your business for the day was done,” Ragna replied, pushing him down into his seat and immediately clambering into his lap - it felt a _bit_ too bold, and her cheeks heated, but Loki’s arms wrapped around her immediately, so he must’ve approved of the gesture.

Sighing, he sank back into the cushions. “About that...” he ventured, his gaze flickering to the fire. “I am afraid that I _do_ have some business left to attend to today, and it involves _you,_ little queen.”

“It does?” Loki looked apprehensive, avoiding her eyes, and the fact that he’d called her ‘little queen’ so easily made her suspicious, though some part of her was thrilled at the endearment. “What sort of business might that be?”

His next sigh was more of a groan, and he pulled her closer, burying his face in her hair. Ragna melted into his touch, eager to soothe him, though her own anxiety spiked - was the business he had to discuss so terribly dreadful, or was he simply exhausted from a long and arduous day?

After a few quiet, peaceful breaths, he allowed her to move to face him, and for a moment, he simply studied her. “Give us a kiss first, darling,” he said, a thin gleam of mischief twinkling in his tired eyes.

Ragna did so happily.

When they finally broke apart, Loki began to play with her hair, still carefully watching her face. “Your brother is here,” he finally said. “Davyn.”

Her heart pounded as Ragna stared right back at him, baffled by such an unexpected announcement. “Davyn? _Here,_ in the palace?”

“That is what I said, is it not?”

“But… but _how?_ And why? When did he arrive?”

Loki cringed. “He arrived the night that we left on our… mission.”

Understanding began to take form in Ragna’s mind, shaped by her rather intimate knowledge of the god’s _modus operandi._ “And am I to assume that he has been… what? _Wandering_ about the palace for the past week, searching for his missing sister?”

“I had to send him to the dungeon, Ragna.”

_“What?”_

She struggled to free herself from his iron grip, but Loki only pulled her closer. “Your outrage is entirely unwarranted,” he snapped. “Or at the very least, do not direct it at _me._ The boy made a spectacle of himself in the middle of the court, calling Odin Allfather’s judgment into question. The _real_ Odin would’ve done exactly the same.”

“I am not outraged that you sent Davyn to the dungeon!” Ragna cried. “I am outraged that you left him there for a _week_ and did not even think to mention it to _me!”_

He appeared to be in the verge of some sharp retort, so she quickly added, _“Norns,_ Loki, you had my brother hidden away in your dungeon while we were off getting _married._ Do you _truly_ think I have no right to be furious with you?”

The king frowned, and had he not looked so chagrined earlier, she might’ve feared that he would throw her over his knee again in retaliation for her tongue. Instead, he simply tightened his grip, nuzzling at her cheek. “Would it quell this _temper_ of yours, my pretty little bride, to know that I’ve arranged for you to meet with him?”

Her throat constricted. “You have?”

“I have,” Loki replied, feathering kisses along her jaw. _“Wife._ Does this please you?”

“Yes, of course.” Ragna was not _unaware_ of the fact that the king was trying to distract her with his touch and soothe away her temper with the gift of seeing her brother, but…. it did not make her appreciate the gesture any less.

Loki _was_ Loki, after all.

“Good. Your pleasure pleases me.”

There was an undercurrent in his voice that sent warmth speeding through her, and Ragna squirmed in his lap as his hands began to wander. She had not _intended_ to allow herself to fall under his spell so quickly, not after the tremendous lie of omission about Davyn, but unfortunately, it seemed that her husband knew her body _far_ too well.

And so, rather than pepper him with dozens of questions about the ‘arrangement’ he’d mentioned, Ragna surrendered and sank into his touch, sighing happily as his mouth moved to her neck. She might as well _indulge_ while she has the chance, she reasoned.

“Oh, _sire.”_

“Ragna.”

He rose, keeping her held tightly in his arms, and she could not suppress a giggle when the king bumped into the table in his haste, quietly cursing as he swept her off to his bedchamber.

Only, it was _their_ bedchamber now, wasn’t it?

“You will not be laughing long, wench.”

Her desire spiked at the growl in his voice as he tossed her onto the bed, and Ragna gasped as she landed in a heap amidst the blankets and pillows. “I was _not_ -” she began to protest, but the king was on her before she had the opportunity to voice her innocence.

“You were, irreverent little thing that you are. And, as your lord and master, it is my duty and my _pleasure_ to correct you.”

 _This is a game,_ Ragna realized, her pulse quickening. Something about that _excited_ her, though she did not entirely understand _why._

As Loki captured her wrists and pinned them by her head, she wiggled experimentally beneath him, a regal frown on her face. “To correct the Queen of the Nine Realms?” she said, mustering as much haughtiness as possible, considering the fact that the king’s hardness dragging against her center with every twist of her hips made it rather _difficult_ to focus on anything at all. “You would not _dare.”_

A spark of wicked delight flickered to life in his eyes, and Loki leaned closer, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. Ragna stopped breathing. “I have always had a taste for rebellion, _my_ _queen.”_

Then he released on of her wrists, his hand moving to delicately wrap around her neck. A gentle squeeze brought her need spiraling to a fever-pitch, and she grunted in surprise.

Loki froze, his long fingers still on her throat, suddenly hesitant.

“No,” Ragna quickly assured him, reaching up her free hand to smooth back his hair. “Don’t stop. I was only…” She flushed, ashamed to admit how his _forcefulness_ made her weak. “It pleases me,” she finally mumbled.

His oddly-boyish, delighted smile contrasted sharply with the feral expression that followed it, punctuated by a slightly firmer grip. “Does it?”

When he sat back on his heels to unfasten his belt, Ragna tried to escape - that _was_ the game they seemed to be playing, after all -  but she found that her right wrist was trapped exactly where he’d left it pressed against the bed, as was her neck. “This is an outrage,” she snapped, struggling to angle her head to watch him as she reached out with her free hand, her fingertips finding nothing but empty air. “And you _will_ be sorry.”

Though she could not see his smirk, she could certainly _hear_ it in his reply. “I think not.”

And then she _could_ see his face again as he loomed over her, looking positively wicked as he captured her free hand and pinned it by her head once again, sealing it in place with magic. It was _truly_ unfair of him, and Ragna frowned as he leaned back once again to gather up her skirts, mustering _just_ enough nerve to send a flailing kick his way.

The king had the actual _audacity_ to snicker as he caught her knee, but before she could properly voice her indignation, she felt his lips against her inner thigh, and the words died in her throat. _“By Valhalla…”_

But they were both enjoying her token struggles to free herself too greatly for her to stop, and so Ragna continued to writhe against the unseen bonds holding her to the bed, aided now by her desperation to bring his touch where she _needed_ it. But Loki, infuriating, _insufferable_ man that he was, merely bit and licked and teased his way up one thigh before switching to the other.

“It is much more _satisfactory,_ little queen, to conquer in the bedroom than on the battlefield.”

Whining in frustration, Ragna rocked her hips and was punished for her efforts with a sharper nip to the soft flesh that seemed to have so thoroughly attracted the king’s attention. “Oh, _Norns,_ Loki, _please.”_

She felt a particularly shaky breath against her skin, what might have been a laugh or a sigh, and then Loki’s long form was stretched over her. “I should leave you here like this,” he said thoughtfully, running his fingertips along her lips. “Just like this, trapped and wanting, to teach you a lesson in _patience.”_

Ragna scowled and snapped at his fingers, and Loki grinned. “So _fierce._ I suppose I’ll save that for another day.”

“I thought that you meant to conquer me.”

“Oh, I _do.”_ Reaching between them, he roughly yanked her undergarments out of his way, and before Ragna even had a moment to catch her breath, he was inside her.

Would she ever tire of the way his eyelashes fluttered when he joined with her, or the way the muscles in his jaw tensed, as if every ounce of his concentration was focused on her, and her alone?

It did not seem likely.

“You do not appear very regal _now,_ my lady.”

“No?” She needed to _touch_ him, but she couldn’t, and so she hooked her leg around his hips instead. Loki grunted in surprise, and Ragna felt the thrill of triumph burn in her chest. “But you do, _sire.”_

_“Ragna -”_

_“My king,”_ she whispered, caught somewhere between smug delight at the fact that she knew how to make him lose control and the terrible need to find her own release alongside him.

And she was so, _so_ very close.

His thrusts were already rough, but Ragna found that she needed _more;_ if she’d had the use of her hands, she might’ve tugged at his hair, or dug her fingers into his back to urge him on, but instead she arched her back, pressing her chest against his. She really didn’t care any longer if it was the _dignified_ thing to do - she just needed _him,_ and she wanted him to give her the satisfaction of making him fall apart.

“Loki,” she whispered, and he leaned down to kiss her cheek. “Loki, my _king.”_ Ragna could swear his eyes were almost glowing in the evening light, and his hand returned to her throat, his teeth bared. He was trying to resist her, she realized, trying to outlast her, to prove some sort of _point._ To _conquer_ her.

But now that Ragna had begun to understand these games of his, she had a rather good idea as to how she might push him over the edge (one that she was quickly nearing herself). She angled her head further back, baring more of her neck. “My lord,” she sighed, rocking to press her breasts against his chest once again, choosing to _entirely_ ignore how wanton it likely made her, “and _master.”_

The king cursed as he found release, and Ragna came crashing down from her peak alongside him, a hoarse cry torn from her throat. Loki groaned and rolled to the side as they floated down from their shared high, resting his forearm over his eyes. “Little _witch,”_ he muttered. “I am still somewhat certain that you’ve bespelled me.”

Her answering laugh was shaky. “I suspect you of the same.”

Snorting, he reached out to pull her against his chest, the bonds holding her to the bed releasing at once. “Well, I _am_ a powerful sorcerer,” he conceded. “And _were_ I to enthrall some pretty little maiden to despoil, you would make an _excellent_ choice.”

“Hmm.” Burrowing against him, Ragna felt an odd twist of emotion at the fact that they were both still fully-clothed, something of a mix between embarrassment and quickly-renewing desire. It was incredibly _thrilling,_ somehow, that the king needed her so badly, so _desperately,_ that he had simply swept her off to his bed… and that she felt exactly the same.

“We should not stay in bed,” Loki sighed, petting her hair. “We should go sit by the fire and eat something, for I _know_ that you wish to pester me with endless questions about my plans, and I require nourishment to sustain me.”

She hummed in agreement, and really, she _did_ need to go wash up - being ravished while wearing one’s gown might be _exciting,_ it did leave one feeling a bit _messy._ However, she made no move to leave the bed, and neither did Loki, and soon they’d both fallen asleep.

 

* * *

 

They only napped for a short time, and the evening found Loki and Ragna sitting on the couch by the fire, a rapidly-emptying dinner tray perched carefully between them. After a quick trip to the bathing chamber to freshen up, she’d changed into one of his tunics, which had led to her having to thwart more of the king’s amorous advances.

Although, to be _entirely_ fair, the king’s current half-clothed appearance practically begged her to make amorous advances of her own.

The matter of Davyn’s imprisonment, however, could not be pushed aside any longer, and Ragna curled up under her blanket, biting her lip as she considered how best to ask.

Loki glanced at her from the corner of his eye as he plucked an apple from the tray. “Go on,” he said. “Ask. You are dying to know what I plan to do with your brother.” He took a bite from the apple, his tongue flickering out to swipe the juice from his lips.

Ragna tore her eyes away, blushing.

“Who is, I might add, _completely_ insufferable. He has the social grace of a bilgesnipe.”

“Alright then, sire. What _are_ you planning to do with my brother?”

“You, darling wife, are going to return from Vanaheim for a short visit. I must emphasize that it will be _short.”_ He looked at her expectantly, and Ragna nodded her acceptance. “Your brother will be allowed to see you then.”

“And when is this supposedly occuring?”

“Tomorrow, around lunchtime.”

Startled, she tensed. “So soon?”

“Yes. I want you to meet with him, and then I want him gone. He is an unnecessary complication. You’ll see him in the solarium near the handmaiden’s chambers, and you will be accompanied by an escort.”

“An escort? And who might _that_ be?”

“Your incredibly handsome soldier-turned-suitor, Einar Fritjofson, _obviously.”_

His smirk was incredibly vexing, and Ragna frowned. “Oh, so Sir Einar is courting me now, is he?”

“Do you have a better idea, my lady? Unless you wish for your father to call you home and arrange your betrothal to someone else.” His eyes glittered as he took another bite from his apple. “That might prove problematic.”

Ragna groaned. “So, what am I to tell Davyn, then? That I’ve fallen for some Einherjar stationed on Vanaheim and that everything is fine and beg him to _please_ not mention it to Father?”

“More or less. I’ll allow you to come up with the story, as you seem to have a knack for it, though I do _implore_ you to leave our children out of it this time.” She flushed, and Loki’s smile widened. “Davyn does not seem to be the type to take such news easily.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Loki.”

“Come, now, that is entirely fair, given your history of fanciful elaboration. Explain to him that things are fine, and that you are perfectly happy at your station on Vanaheim. Implore him to return to Ringsfjord immediately, and reassure him that any… _alternative_ arrangements your father might be considering are entirely unnecessary.”

“And you will be... what? Simply standing there silently, watching us?”

“I will converse as necessary.”

“Do you not trust me, even now? Even with my own _brother?”_

Loki turned fully towards her then, his smile fading. “I trust you, Ragna. But the fact remains that someone tried to murder you under my watch, and now there is some sort of inexplicable blight on Vanaheim… I cannot help but wonder if someone is attempting to smoke you out of hiding. It is for your own safely.”

“Wait.” Ragna held up her hand, entirely blindsided by this new revelation. “There is a blight on Vanaheim?”

“So it would seem.”

“Is that what the lord wished to speak with you about today?”

His frown deepened. “What lord?”

A creeping sense of foreboding crawled across her skin, and she tugged the blanket closer. “There was someone outside of your chambers today, asking to meet with you about Vanaheim. I listened through the door, but the guard turned him away.” The look of alarm in Loki’s eyes sent her own anxiety quickly spiraling. “You do not think…?”

“No one came to speak with me about Vanaheim - it was only mentioned in my private council meeting this morning.” He seemed to notice then that she was shaking, and he waved away the tray, opening his arms. “Come here, darling.”

Ragna needed no further encouragement to fall into his embrace, and Loki pulled her into his lap, bundling them both up in her blanket. “There is nothing to fear,” he said. “After all, we do not know for certain that there is any connection, and even if there is, I will not let anything happen to you.”

How did he make her feel so safe, so _secure?_ She fidgeted with the bracelet on her wrist, peering up at him, knowing that he would not like what she was about to say. “I would like to help investigate.”

“Investigate _how?”_

“I want to travel to Vanaheim.”

“Absolutely not. Are you mad?”

“Please, Loki. I am practically useless here, and you are limited in range; I could go anywhere in the Nine Realms without drawing attention from Heimdall.”

“I am not _worried_ about you drawing the attention of Heimdall, little fool - I am worried about you drawing the attention of those who wish to _murder_ you.”

“Jotunheim, then, perhaps? I know that you do not wish to go there, but someone needs to relay your communications to their queen, and who else can you trust better than your wife?”

“No.”

“But -”

“I said _no,_ Ragna. That is the end of it. Please, just try to focus on seeing your brother tomorrow, and let me worry about the rest.”

 _I do not want you to worry about the rest alone,_ she wanted to say, but there was a deep weariness in the king’s voice, and Ragna’s urge to soothe him overrode her desire to argue - she could save that for later.

“Very well, sire. Let us go to bed, then. Tomorrow promises to be a _very_ busy day.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My babies are back! :D 
> 
> Allfather Loki and Ragna are over here ready to tackle conspiracies and the challenges of sacred matrimony, y'all. So let's get back to the plotting! (but also more smut because they've slow-burned long enough and they *deserve* it) <3
> 
> As always, comments are loved and deeply appreciated!


	27. The Solarium Meeting

Loki was incredibly uncomfortable. He did not particularly care for overt displays of emotion, and yet here he stood, watching Ragna and her brother cling to each other as if they’d never expected to see each other again. If he was being entirely honest with himself, there was a hint of guilt adding to his discomfort, as well; he _had_ considered killing both of them at one point or another, after all.

And he’d certainly never planned to go out of his way to see that his little captive was reunited with her family so soon, not while she was still hidden in his chambers and he still ruled under the guise of Odin Allfather.

But then, he’d never planned to marry the ridiculous little creature, either, or to fall in love with her… because that was what _this_ must be, was it not? _Love?_

Was there any other reason to explain why she simultaneously managed to cause him so much happiness and so much worry, why he was willing to go to such lengths to please her? He could pretend that it was just an infatuation all he wanted, but Loki knew that he was lying to himself.

Yes, he was beginning to believe that his earlier suspicions were correct - he loved his wife.

He was _in love_ with his wife.

He had a _wife._

 _Norns,_ but that was incredibly difficult to process. Loki Laufeyson, _God of Lies,_ had settled into something like domestic bliss with a pretty little wife. And it was not some demure, dull princess, like he’d always expected to be paired off with someday. No, Loki had managed to end up with a clever, sharp-tongued little scholar who seemed to have absolutely no qualms twisting him to her will.

He quite liked that about her.

But right now, Loki simply wanted to _leave,_ to call the whole thing off and storm back up to his chambers with Ragna in tow. He did not like having her out in the palace when there might be conspirators skulking through the halls, he did not like her brother, and he _especially_ did not like the guilt he felt at their short-lived reunion.

“Who is this?” Davyn finally asked, pulling away from his sister and apparently noticing the other presence in the solarium for the first time.

“Einar Fritjofson, of Nastrond.” Loki’s smile was dazzling, and it only seemed to set Davyn further on-edge.

Loki briefly wished that Ragna’d had only sisters.

“And why is Einar Fritjofson of Nastrond _here?”_ He turned his questioning gaze back to his sister, and Ragna began to blush.

“Sir Einar was kind enough to escort me back from my post on Vanaheim,” she said. “You know that the Bifrost is not currently open to civilian travel, Davyn.”

“That explains why he accompanied you on the journey, but not why he is still here.”

 _“He_ is still here,” Loki said smoothly, “because Lady Ragna is safest when _he_ is here.” Davyn glared, and Loki suddenly felt the familiar urge to cause trouble. “And truthfully, boy, you _must_ know that the Allfather is still incredibly displeased with you. You are lucky to be out of the dungeon. Supervision is a small price to pay.”

“I did nothing wrong.”

“Brother, could you _please_ refrain from wasting our time with pointless arguments?” And then, much to Loki’s surprise and amusement, she pinched Davyn’s arm when he appeared intent on ignoring her and starting a row.

“Ow, _fine,_ Ragna.” He sat heavily on one of the cushioned windowseats circling the solarium, arms crossed. “Explain to me this post of yours, and why it is so important that you cannot remain in Asgard.”

“I was _obviously_ going to either be sent home or reassigned to another noble lady after the Allmother’s passing. That is what handmaidens _do._ I am young and I wanted to explore - of _course_ I accepted the Allfather’s assignment.”

“You essentially disappeared into the night! Mother and Father have been worried sick, and so have the rest of us. You were supposed to visit for the Midwinter Festival; we’d all been looking forward to it for ages. I don’t understand why you are _still_ so fascinated with the nobility.”

Ragna’s brow lifted, a tired, critical expression that gave Loki the impression that they’d had this conversation many times before. “We are nobles, Davyn.”

He snorted. “Hardly. We aren’t like the rest of them, and you know it. Come back home, Ragna.”

 _“We aren’t like the rest of them.”_ How surprised the boy would be, Loki mused, to learn that his sister was now the queen. She _was_ the nobility; she’d have a flock of handmaidens of her own, if he ever managed to go public with his usurpation of the throne.

“I will not be coming home. I am quite happy with where I am, for the time being. It isn’t as if this is forever.”

Loki caught her sending a searching look his way as she spoke, and he gave her a faint, reassuring smile. _No,_ he wanted to say, _you will not be hidden away forever, Ragna. I’ll see us both on the throne, someday._ Would that make her happy?

“Father is thinking of looking for a match for you, Sister. You are old enough for it, and it would be entirely preferable to you being on _Vanaheim.”_

 _“‘Old enough for it?’_ You are barely a _century_ younger than me, you _horrid_ boy! I have no desire to settle down as some stuffy lord’s dull little housewife, in any case.”

“What if it is not some stuffy lord?”

“Meaning?”

The boy ran his fingers through his curly hair, clearly ill-at-ease with the prospect of discussing suitors with his sister. “I spent some time in the library yesterday, after I was released.” Loki realized where he was headed at once, and his blood began to boil before the words had even left Davyn’s mouth. “I met that friend of yours, Hakon Jarlsson. He seems fond of you.”

Ragna shot another look his way, one that said something along the lines of, _“Don’t you dare throttle my brother, Loki Laufeyson,”_ and he bit his tongue.

“Have you lost your mind, Davyn?” she snapped. “I do not _need_ you to play matchmaker for me. And as it happens, I am already _fond_ of someone else.”

“And who might _that_ be?”

Her lips thinned, and her brother followed her gaze, groaning in realization. _“This_ one? An Einherji, Ragna, _really?”_

“Yes, really.”

“Do you have something against the Einherjar, Askrson?” Loki snapped, seriously reconsidering his decision to not throttle the boy.

“No, but I have something against _you—”_

“Stop it, Davyn! Honestly, why Father sent _you_ instead of Bláinn or Blákári, I cannot begin to imagine…”

“He didn’t.”

_“What?”_

“Mother and Father think that I am currently on a hunting trip with the Ofráðrsons. Only Nereiðr knows that I came here.”

“Are you _stupid?_ What if you’d ended up in the dungeon for weeks? What would they have thought?”

“I did not _expect_ to end up in the dungeon, of course!”

Their bickering continued; It was _fascinating,_ Loki decided, to see this side of her. She was certainly fierce, and it reminded him of arguments he’d had with his own brother… back when he’d _had_ a brother.

_Best not to dwell on that._

“Your time is nearly up, my lady,” he announced before long; really, how much of this could he be _reasonably_ be expected to endure? “You’d best make your farewells.”

The look she sent him then gave Loki a very distinct feeling that his little bride would _not_ be welcoming him into her arms that night. Inwardly, he sighed. _No good deed goes unpunished._ “I will give you a moment of privacy. I’ll be waiting just outside the door.”

And he was true to his word; he _did_ give them privacy, though it caused him quite a bit of anxiety. As he waited, Loki decided that he was being more than generous with his little prisoner-queen, and so if she did dare to speak crossly with him, he’d be well within his rights to chastise her. Considering the way she’d responded the last time he’d turned her over his knee, he was almost _hoping_ she would.

Loki caught himself daydreaming, something that was beginning to occur with worrying frequency. He almost… _enjoyed_ the thought of being in one of those dreadful, shoddy inns again, only _this_ time, he imagined doing as he pleased. With or without the disguise he’d given her, Ragna was the most beautiful creature to ever grace those wretched villages, and the dark, prideful part of him was captivated by the thought of her little cries and moans seeping through the thin walls. There would be no doubt that she was only _his._

She would certainly have a fearsome blush on her cheeks if he told her such things. Loki smirked to himself, deciding that he _would._

He was beginning to grow a bit irritated by the time the door finally opened. When Ragna and Davyn emerged, hand-in-hand, the feeling only deepened. There had been a time when Loki had appreciated such gestures of familial affection, but now… now, they just left a sour taste in his mouth, a reminder that nothing he’d known had ever been _real._

Thor would’ve never cheerfully clasped him on the shoulder if he’d known that he was acting affectionately towards a _Frost Giant_ \- he might _claim_ otherwise, now that he had fallen to Midgard and somehow become _enlightened_ by Jane Foster’s touch, but Loki knew better.

“You are to collect your things and return to Ringsfjord at once, Askrson,” he said, doing his best to ignore Ragna’s immediate frown; he had no doubt that she took issue with the brusqueness of his tone, but he could deal with her ire later, once they were alone.

Davyn looked as though he were about to say something scathing, but as his sister squeezed his hand, his expression smoothed. “Of course, Einherji. As the Allfather commands.”

“Davyn…”

“I will see you soon, Sister.” He kissed Ragna’s hand and stalked away down the hall, his shoulders tense.

 _Best to have the Einherjar see to it that he actually leaves the capital,_ Loki decided. The last thing he needed right now was some adolescent with a grudge roaming about making a nuisance of himself.

Loki offered his arm. “Come along, my lady.”

And though she took it without a word of complaint, he could _feel_ Ragna’s displeasure, and it made him slightly… distressed. The silence became more and more uncomfortable as they navigated the mostly-empty hallways leading towards her old chamber, eventually reaching a point that Loki could no longer endure.

“Are you glad to have seen your brother again, Lady Ragna?”

“Yes, Sir Einar,” she replied after a moment, “though Davyn did inform me that he is not allowed to return to the palace unless he is accompanied by my parents, which I find incredibly unnecessary.”

They reached her door, and Loki was quick to pull her inside. “Ragna, one of the lords on the council made the suggestion for the restriction, not I. As a whole, they felt that such youthful exuberance and lack of tact is grossly inappropriate for a young lord addressing the King of Asgard, and I agreed.”

He chose not to mention the scattered comments regarding _‘mortal brashness,’_ for he had no desire to discuss the touchy matter of her apparently-tainted bloodline. Though, it _was_ a matter that he would have to address eventually, particularly if he wanted to see her on the throne…

 _I suppose that if there is a Jötunn on the throne as king,_ he decided, _they can hardly complain about a queen from the lower nobility with traces of mortal blood._

“You are truly going to blame your council, Loki, when you are the _king?_ I do not _care_ what they think. Davyn is not a criminal, that he should be barred from the city simply because he speaks his mind.”

“But as I have already _said,_ I agreed with them.” He tipped up her chin with one finger, trying to force her to actually _look_ at him. “If you intend to pout this way whenever the king grants you a favor, my queen, then perhaps he will stop granting them entirely.”

Ragna blinked rapidly, and Loki realized then that she was on the verge of tears. _But why?_ He had given her what she wanted; true, it might not be _all_ that she wanted, but it was more than she could’ve reasonably expected. If Loki’d had his way, there would’ve been no meeting at all, but he had been swayed by the urge to see her happy.

It was a terrible, problematic urge, one that he’d do well to rid himself of as quickly as possible. Even Odin Allfather had only allowed himself to be influenced by Queen Frigga’s sentimentality to a certain degree, and that was after centuries upon centuries of ruling side-by-side.

Still, it was that very-same urge that led him to offer her something quite ridiculous.

“While you are officially returned from Vanaheim, my lady, would you care to go out to the markets? I would be happy to escort you. It has been some time, has it not, since you ventured out into the city?”

“I… yes, I would.”

Loki wished that perhaps her blue eyes were slightly less captivating, for he found it strangely difficult to be stern with his new little bride, despite his best efforts. He hoped that the effect would pass, given some time. “Shall we go?”

“May I stay here for a time?” she asked, voice soft. “In my chamber, I mean. Alone.”

His hand fell away from her. “Why?”

“I would think, sire, that you of all people would understand the desire for moments of solitude. You have this chamber warded, do you not? I simply would like some time to be here in my old room.”

While the need for solitude was indeed something Loki could entirely understand, he could not imagine why Ragna would want to stay here; the room was small and not very grand, and many of her possessions had already taken up residence in his chambers. Still, to his own surprise, he agreed to her ridiculous request, and after informing her that she had one hour until he would return, he left her to sulk.

 

* * *

 

Loki had spent the better part of the hour attempting to respond to correspondances that had gone neglected in his absence, though he found it difficult to think of anything aside from his vexing little wife. Most of the letters were in regards to things that required very little mental effort, fortunately, such as lords wishing to raise their taxes, or requesting his presence at events - Odin only left the palace sparingly for social occasions, though it was considered socially imperative that he be invited to them all, nonetheless.

When he finally reached a message that gave him pause, the hour was almost up, but he decided that Ragna would likely appreciate a few more moments to herself, and he needed time to think.

According to the letter, sent from one of the Asgardian ambassadors on Alfheim, a wealthy elf-lord had recently passed away unexpectedly, his eldest daughter disappearing into the night. _Apparently,_ the king and queen were rather concerned about the matter, and had asked him to send one of his lords as an unbiased outside party to investigate.

The _tricky_ thing was that Loki was almost _entirely_ certain that the elf-maid in question was, in fact, the Lady Bruna.

But if so, how had she managed to slip into Asgard, particularly with a Kree at her side? Was she the victim of some foul play, or the perpetrator? He decided it best to keep his knowledge of the woman’s location to himself for the time being, instead sending a reply to the effect that he’d be more than willing to comply with the request.

It couldn’t hurt to have more eyes and ears on Alfheim, after all, and perhaps it would give him more insight into Agviðr’s schemes.

After delivering the stack of papers to the Einherjar at his door, Loki took on the form of Einar and slipped back into Ragna’s chamber. Curiosity getting the better of him, he kept himself hidden from her, wondering what she could possibly be _doing_ alone in the nearly-empty room.

Interestingly enough, Ragna was simply sitting on her bed, her chin resting on her hands, staring into space. At least it did not appear as though she’d been weeping, for which Loki was immensely grateful.

He _hoped_ that she was not cursing her terrible lack of judgment for agreeing to wed him.

Ragna jumped slightly when he appeared directly in front of her. “You are late, sire.”

“Only slightly, darling. I did not think you would mind a few extra moments alone.”

“Hmm. I have come to a decision.”

The stubborn set of her jaw put Loki immediately on-edge. _“Oh?”_

“Yes. I will be going home next winter for Vetrnætr. It is one of my favorite festivals, and I missed it _entirely_ this year, trapped in your chambers.”

That stung a bit, but he supposed that things had still been rather tense between them during the first days of winter. “If my queen desires elaborate Vetrnætr festivities,” he replied smoothly, “then I would be happy to see that the palace celebrates in earnest when winter comes again.”

“That is not what I am saying—” she began, but Loki was quick to cut her off, offering her his hand. Let her think whatever she wished - he had no intention of letting her out of his sight until he was certain that all threats to her person were eliminated.

“Come,” he said. “It is past lunchtime now, and I know you must be hungry. We can eat in the marketplace. The weather is beginning to warm slightly in the wake of the storm, and I believe you will find it pleasing.”

It came as a tremendous relief when she took his hand and allowed him to pull her to her feet, and he was quick to magic her pretty new cloak from their chambers and wrap it around her shoulders. “There _is_ still a chill in the air,” he commented, attempting to keep his voice light. “I would not want you to catch cold, my lady.”

He saw her rubbing her fingers along the fabric, her expression becoming slightly more welcoming. “Thank you, sire.”

 

* * *

 

By the time they reached the market, Ragna seemed almost-cheerful, and Loki could sense no falseness in it. It was in her nature, he supposed, to try to make the best of things. In some ways, he supposed he was the same, though his ‘making the best of things’ tended to be quite a bit more _mischievous._

“I would not _dare_ to suggest that your affections could be bought, Lady Ragna,” Loki teased as they made their way through the shops and stalls, “but if it _were_ possible, what might a handsome young admirer purchase to woo you?”

Her eyes crinkled up as she smiled, an excellent victory on his part. “A bread-bowl full of stew sounds _remarkably_ enticing at the moment,” she replied. “Perhaps a handsome young admirer would be wise to begin with that. And he would be in luck, also, for my _favorite_ seller is only a few minutes from here. Her spices are _most_ excellent.”

Loki laughed to himself, knowing that he _shouldn’t_ be surprised.

A few moments later, as they sat side-by-side on a crude wooden bench holding a food that Loki considered _far_ too messy to attempt to eat while navigating the crowded streets, he couldn’t help but notice the way her thigh pressed against his. It had to be intentional - the bench was small, true, but it was not _that_ small. He took it as a sign that he was well on his way to making her forget her earlier angst.

“What if someone spots me, Sir Einar?” Ragna said suddenly. “I would not want any of my friends in the palace to think that I came all the way back to Asgard, only to snub them.”

“I am keeping a careful eye for familiar faces, my lady. If we do encounter anyone from the palace, you may simply tell them that your escort from Vanaheim is keeping you on a tight leash; I do not mind taking the blame.”

“Well, you _shouldn’t_ mind, my lord. The blame is yours, after all.”

“I suppose.”

“This is delicious,” she announced. “I am glad that we came.”

“I would argue that it has too much heat, but I am glad that you are pleased.”

They ate in silence for a while, both famished, simply watching the crowds pass by. When they began walking again, Loki was pleased to note that Ragna took his arm entirely of her own volition.

“Do you know,” she said, “the last time I was here, I purchased those earrings for the ill-fated ball where I was very nearly poisoned? It seems like another lifetime entirely.”

“It feels much the same for me, my lady. How _shocking_ I find my current circumstances.”

Ragna turned to look up at him. _“Pleasantly_ shocking, I hope?”

“Wonderfully pleasant, I assure you. I am most grateful.”

The corner of her lip turned up slightly. “Hmm. Perhaps you would care to _demonstrate_ your gratitude later this evening, my lord.” Loki’s pulse quickened at the suggestiveness in her tone, but Ragna’s composure failed her almost immediately, and she grinned. “There is a book that I would _love_ to hear you read aloud.”

Defeated, Loki sighed. “As you wish, my lady.”

 

* * *

 

Despite Ragna’s protests, he ended up purchasing an entire basket of trinkets at the market, all of which he knew she secretly desired; his little goddess might _think_ herself subtle in her admiration, but she truly was not. There were more books for her collection, and a new pair of earrings - _“For happier memories,” he’d told her_ \- and more than a few different parcels of teas and confections. Despite all of their many differences, they _did_ seem to share a sweet tooth.

His treacherous mind turned once again to the idea of children, and while the thought of little hellions running wild through the markets and stealing pastries from the palace kitchens certainly _should’ve_ horrified him… it did not. Loki risked a glance at the little goddess on his arm, feeling a strange heat take to his cheeks; what would she _do,_ if she knew he had such thoughts?

He couldn’t help but think that she would likely be appalled; true, she might accept him to some degree, despite the fact that he was a Jötunn… but she had known him for _centuries_ as the Prince of Asgard, and it was an Æsir’s form he kept, even when he was alone. Certainly Ragna would never wish to have part-Jötnar offspring, would she? Loki could hardly fault her for that, as much as it pained him to think of it, _particularly_ considering the taunting she’d endured for her own partly-mortal bloodline.

If only he could learn to be satisfied with what he had, rather than craving things he had no right to hope for… but as he’d come to realize some time ago, it was not in Loki’s nature to be satisfied, not for long. It would never be _enough._

As they made their way back through the palace halls in the golden glow of the late afternoon, Ragna’s fingers lightly squeezed his arm. “What troubles my bold Einherji?” she asked lightly. “You seem lost in thought, Sir Einar.”

“I am only thinking towards the future, my lady,” Loki admitted. “Many things are so… uncertain.”

“This is true,” Ragna replied, “and it always _will_ be true. But may I share another truth with you, my lord?”

“You may.”

“Some things _are_ certain.” She smiled up at him, a light blush coloring her cheeks. _“I_ am a certainty, and you may count upon that.”

He was so terribly, _dreadfully_ fond of her, and the proclamation caused a strange, small bloom of warmth deep in his chest. “Is that so?”

“It is.”

They both had odd little smiles on their faces for the rest of the trip back to her chamber.

 

* * *

 

“Why _were_ you late, Loki? I was honestly rather shocked that you even gave me the entire hour to myself. It is _very_ unlike you.”

Loki glanced up from the task at hand. Ragna currently sprawled on the couch, her legs in his lap, and he had decided that rubbing her legs - which she _claimed_ were aching after all of the walking of the past week - was the husbandly thing to do. And really, after so many months of trying to hold himself back, of endlessly painful self-denial, he found himself giving in to even the flimsiest excuse to simply _touch_ her.

She was so _warm._

“I truly did think that you might enjoy a few extra moments,” he replied, his hand on her ankle. “And I had some letters that required my attention, as well.”

Ragna wiggled her toes, sighing in satisfaction. “Ah, so the truth comes out at last. What was in these letters, dear husband?”

“There was one in particular that I found captivating. You recall Kanpr, Odin’s _esteemed_ emissary to Alfheim?”

“The one with the mustache?” She giggled, and Loki could not tell if it was at the recollection, or if he was tickling her. “I remember him. He is a terrible flirt.”

“Is he?” Loki asked pleasantly, sliding a hand up past her knee. “He is rather _old_ for you, isn’t he?”

“Oh, don’t tease, Loki; _all_ of Frigga’s handmaidens dreaded the man. He is burdened with the affliction of thinking himself a much better dancing partner than he truly is, though he never bothered _me_ overmuch - I am unfashionably small, you know.”

His fingers stroked the soft skin of her thigh, pushing her tunic out of the way, feeling remarkably proud at the way her eyes fluttered closed. He might not have the makings of a _good_ husband, but at least he was an _attentive_ one. “Dreadfully, unpardonably small,” he agreed.

“Stop with your _distractions,_ Trickster. What did Lord Kanpr have to say?”

“A maiden has gone missing from Alfheim, her lord father recently, _unexpectedly_ deceased.”

Ragna pushed herself up on her elbows, eyes wide. “Bruna?” she exclaimed. “Agviðr’s bride?”

“I am not certain; I intend to send someone to investigate more thoroughly. Hogun, perhaps.”

“Not Hogun, sire - you will want him here if the Vanir send emissaries to discuss the blight, won’t you?”

“An excellent point, my lady. I _knew_ there was a reason I’d decided to keep you around.”

“Surely that is not the only reason.”

“No, I suppose I can think of a few."

And even though he couldn’t bring himself to actually say it _aloud,_ Loki knew that he truly _meant_ his next thought, sitting there with her in the warmth of the firelight, side-by-side even though he _knew_ she was still somewhat vexed with him.

_I love you._

 

* * *

 

“I can help you with the letter-writing, you know?”

Loki had just returned from the bath, towelling off, to find Ragna’s head peeping from beneath the covers. “Isn’t this a bit early for you, darling?”

“I awoke when you slipped from my clutches,” she replied, her words followed by an impressive yawn. “Are you going to ignore my offer? Queen Frigga replied to many of the king’s letters to spare him the effort.”

“Do you imagine that you can forge Odin’s handwriting?”

Ragna snorted. “If _you_ can, Loki, then I am certain I can manage. Besides, every king uses a scribe from time to time - it isn’t as if some unnamed landowner in the west is going to know or _care_ if Odin hand-wrote a missive himself.”

“Very well.” He leaned over, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “I will leave the study unlocked. Deal with what you can, and leave the rest for me. But for now, sleep; sunrise is still a few hours away.”

“Will you be late returning tonight?”

“Yes.”

She yawned again, burrowing back under the covers. “I will wait up for you.”

Loki began to tell her that there was no need, but decided against it. Really, knowing that he would come back tonight to find her waiting for him would likely do wonders for his mood.

As he made his way to his throne, flanked by Einherjar, he wondered if he would have to champion a scandalous change of tradition when _(and if)_ he and Ragna did officially rule the Realm Eternal. Wives of the upper classes were, of course, _supposed_ to keep primarily to their own chambers unless they were called for; even Odin and Frigga, after all of their years together, had kept up this pretense.

Loki, however, did not feel any particular call to honor tradition, and he was hardly able to imagine _Ragna_ sitting around surrounded by handmaidens and hangers-on in separate chambers, chatting politely with noble ladies over embroidery.

No, he would keep her with _him,_ where she belonged.

He called for Hogun and informed the man that the Vanir would likely be visiting, and that he would be expected to act as a liaison. As usual, Hogun had very little to say on the matter, though Loki saw concern flash in his eyes as the mention of the blight.

He’d then called for Hakon Jarlsson.

The boy looked entirely perplexed at the summons, and as he stood before the throne, Loki felt the jealous temptation to simply send him away to a cell. But no - he had no true cause, and Ragna would be terribly cross.

“Lord Hakon,” he said, “our friends on Alfheim have requested assistance with the mysterious disappearance of one of their noblewomen. You are well-read on the royal Ljósálfar houses, are you not?”

“I am, Allfather.”

“You have a sharp mind, young Jarlsson, by all accounts. You will be accompanying a troop of Einherjar to the Light Elf Court to investigate the matter. I expect prompt, direct correspondence as soon as you find out anything of note - you may tell Lord Kanpr that I have given you this directive.”

Hakon seemed stunned, and Loki narrowed Odin’s good eye, a perfect imitation of the stern look he’d received so often himself. “Am I understood, Lord Hakon? This is a great honor, especially for one so young. Do you not wish to accept it?”

“No, sire.” Bowing, he seemed to regain some of his composure. “It is certainly unexpected, but a welcome challenge. I would be happy to serve as a representative of the realm.”

“Good, good. Go and ready your things; your party will leave this evening. I will send word to your father.”

Loki breathed a sigh of relief once the lord was gone; he’d expected more of a protest. With the librarian and Ragna’s brother out of the capital, at least he would not have to worry about them meeting to conspire. And truly, though he hated to admit it, the boy _did_ seem intelligent. If he wasn’t any use as a fighter, then he might as well be put to use elsewhere.

Yes, on the whole, things were looking rather _positive_ for Loki Laufeyson.

If only he could figure out who it was that was plotting to kill him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LOKI'S CAUGHT FEELINGS SO HARD <3
> 
> My baby is now over 100k words ;-; They grow up so fast!!
> 
> Thank you so much for your comments, they really do wonders to keep me motivated! <3 (And I love talking about this story -and all my stories, really- so feel free to shoot questions my way on [Tumblr](https://maiden-of-asgard.tumblr.com/))!
> 
>  


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